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More  to  follow, 


MORE 
PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 


BY 

STUART  WALKER 

Author  of  Portmanteau  Plays 


Edited,  and  with  an  Introduction  by 

EDWARD  HALE  BIERSTADT 


ILLUSTRATE!. 


SECOND  PRINTING 


CINCINNATI 

STEWART  KIDD  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1919,  BY 
STEWART  KIDD  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


These  plays  are  fully  protected  by  the  copyright  law.    All  public 

performances  are  forbidden,  and  all  dramatic  and  producing  rights 

are  reserved  by  the  author,  Stuart  Walker,  who  may  be  addressed 

at  304  Carnegie  Hall,  New  York  City 


Published  October,  1919 
Second  Printing,  May,  1923 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 

THE  CAXTON  PRESS 
"Everybody  for  books."     This  is  one  of  the  Interlaken  Library 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

STUART  WALKER  WITH  THE  WORKING  MODEL  OF 

His  PORTMANTEAU  THEATRE  .      .      .   Frontispiece 

FACING 
PAGE 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE,  ACT 

HI 34 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE,  ACT 

III 63 

THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 80 

JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH,  ACT  I 130 

JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH,  ACT  II 149 


671750 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION       .               v 

PROLOGUE  TO  THE  PORTMANTEAU  THEATRE  .       .  i 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE       .  5 

THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 71 

JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 87 

REPERTORY  THEATRES  AND  THEIR  PLAYS: 

A.  M.  PALMER:  AUTHOR'S  MATINEES      .        .  201 

THE  THEATRE  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS         .  201 

THE  CRITERION  INDEPENDENT  THEATRE     .  201 

THE  NEW  THEATRE 2o2 

Miss  GRACE  GEORGE:     THE  PLAYHOUSE      .  203 

WASHINGTON  SQUARE  PLAYERS       ...  203 
STUART  WALKER  COMPANY        .       .       -       .205 


INTRODUCTION 


INTRODUCTION 

During  the  period  which  has  elapsed  between 
the  publication  of  Portmanteau  Plays,  and  that  of 
the  present  volume  our  country  entered  upon  the 
greatest  war  in  history,  and  emerged  victorious. 
It  is  far  too  early  to  estimate  what  effect  that  war 
has  had  or  may  have  upon  all  art  in  general,  and 
upon  the  dramatic  and  theatric  arts  in  particular, 
but  there  is  every  indication  that  the  curtain  is 
about  to  rise  on  the  great  romantic  revival  which 
we  have  watched  and  waited  for,  and  of  which 
Stuart  Walker  has  been  one  of  the  major  prophets. 

During  the  actual  period  of  the  war  many 
of  the  creative  and  interpretative  artists  of  the 
theater  were  engaged  either  directly  in  army  work 
or  in  one  of  its  auxiliary  branches.  It  is  amusing 
to  recall  that  the  present  writer  met  Schuyler 
Ladd  serving  as  Mess  Sergeant  for  a  Base  Hos 
pital  in  France,  Alexander  Wollcott,  late  dramatic 
critic  of  the  New  York  Times,  attached  to  the 
Stars  and  Stripes  in  Paris,  and  Douglas  Stuart, 
the  London  producer,  in  an  English  hospital  at 
Etretat,  the  while  he  himself  was  serving  as  an  en 
listed  man  on  the  staff  of  the  same  hospital. 
These  are  minor  instances,  but  when  they  have 
been  multiplied  several  hundred  times  one  begins 
to  see  how  closely  the  actor,  the  critic,  and  the 
producer  were  involved  in  the  struggle.  Again 
the  problem  of  providing  proper  entertainment 
for  the  troops  was,  and  still  is,  a  serious  one.  In 
the  great  number  of  cases  it  seems  highly  prob- 

v 


INTRODUCTION 

-  — 

able  that  the  entertainment  along  such  lines  done 
by  the  men  themselves  was   far  more   effective 
than    that    provided    by    outside    organizations. 
More   than   once,   however,    it   appeared   to    the 
writer  that  here  was  a  field  especially  suited  to  the 
Portmanteau  Theater  and  to  its  repertory.      1  he 
question  of  transportation,  always  a  crucial  point 
with  such  a  venture,  was  no  more  difficult  than 
that  presented  by  many  companies  already  in  the 
field,   and  doing  immensely  inferior  work.      My 
return  to  America  put  me   in  possession  of  the 
facts  of  the  matter,  and  without  desiring  in  any 
way  to  cast  blame,  much  less  to  indict,  or  to  em 
phasize  unduly  a  relatively  unimportant  point,  it 
seems  only  fitting  that  there  should  be  included  in 
this  record  the  reasons  for  what  has  seemed  to 
many  of  us  a  lost  opportunity.     They  are  at  least 
much  more  brief  than  the  apologia  which  precedes 

them.  L 

The  Portmanteau  Theater,  its  repertory  ot 
forty-eight  plays,  and  its  trained  company,  was 
offered  for  war  purposes  under  the  following  con- 
ditions:  no  royalty  was  to  be  paid  ror  any  of  the 
plays,  no  salary  was  to  be  paid  Mr.  Walker;  the 
company  was  to  go  wherever  sent,  whether  in  or 
out  of  shell  fire,  in  France  or  in  England;  the 
only  stipulation  being  that  the  members  of  the 
company  should  be  remunerated  at  the  same  rate 
paid  an  enlisted  man  in  the  United  States^army, 
and  that  the  principal  members  should  receive  the 
pay  of  subalterns.  On  the  whole  an  arrangement 
so  generous  that  it  is  almost  absurd.  To  this 
offer  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  turned  a  deaf  ear  Their 
attention  was  concentrated  on  vaudeville  at  the 


VI 


INTRODUCTION 


moment,  and  with  one  hand  they  covered  their 
eyes  while  with  the  other  they  clutched  their  purse 
strings.  The  War  Camp  Community  Service 
could  see  no  way  in  which  the  Theater  could  func 
tion  for  the  men  either  at  home  or  abroad.  The 
Portmanteau  was,  in  a  word,  too  "  high-brow  "  a 
venture  for  them.  The  reader  is  referred  to  the 
Appendix  of  this  volume  showing  the  repertory 
in  use  at  that  time.  Another  official  contented 
himself  with  the  statement  that  the  problem  of 
transportation  involved  rendered  the  project  im 
practicable.  The  matter  is  too  lengthy  to  discuss 
here,  but  the  writer,  who  was  able  to  observe  the 
situation  at  first  hand,  knows  this  to  be  an  error. 
The  navy  then  asked  for  plans  and  estimates  so 
that  a  number  of  Portmanteau  Theaters  might  be 
constructed  aboard  the  ships.  Mr.  Walker  of 
fered  to  put  all  his  patents  at  the  complete  dis 
posal  of  the  Navy  Department,  and  himself  was 
ready  to  draw  plans  and  make  suggestions.  The 
navy  approved  the  idea,  and  with  sublime  assur 
ance  requested  Mr.  Walker  to  proceed  with  the 
work  of  construction  —  at  his  own  expense.  It 
was  impossible;  the  money  could  not  be  afforded, 
and  the  venture  was  abandoned.  It  is  therefore 
very  evident  that  there  was  an  opportunity,  and 
that  that  opportunity  was  lost;  but  it  was  not  the 
Portmanteau  which  lost  it.  At  any  rate  we  are 
left  free  to  take  up  the  history  of  Mr.  Walker's 
theater  and  his  plays  at  the  point  where  we  left 
off  in  the  first  book  of  the  series. 

The  close  of  the  highly  successful  season  at  the 
Princess  Theater  in  New  York,  the  winter  of 
1915-1916,  was  followed  by  twelve  weeks  on  the 

vii 


INTRODUCTION 


road,  three  of  which  were  spent  in  Chicago,  and 
then  by  thirteen  weeks  in  Indianapolis.  It  was 
in  this  last  city  that  the  production  of  the  adapta 
tion  of  Booth  Tarkington's  book,  "  Seventeen," 
changed  all  plans  by  its  instant  popularity.  On 
the  way  East,  a  stop  was  made  in  Chicago,  and 
before  that  city  had  time  to  do  much  more  than 
voice  its  enthusiasm,  the  company  left  for  New 
York.  During  the  fall  of  1917  Seventeen  was 
played  regularly,  with  the  addition  of  some  spe 
cial  performances  of  the  repertory.  Seventeen 
was  played  in  New  York  for  two  hundred  and 
fifty-eight  performances  (Chicago  had  already 
had  one  hundred),  and  the  special  performances 
of  The  Book  of  Job  were  renewed  in  the  spring. 
It  was  during  the  next  fall,  that  of  1918,  that  a 
second  Seventeen  company  was  sent  out  on  the 
road.  That  company  is  still  out,  the  total  play 
ing  time  for  the  work  since  its  production  being 
(April,  1919)  just  one  hundred  and  four  weeks. 
The  next  summer,  1918,  included  a  repertory 
season  of  thirteen  weeks,  again  at  Indianapolis, 
and  four  in  Cincinnati,  while  the  following  winter, 
just  past,  claimed  ten  weeks  of  repertory  at  the 
Punch  and  Judy  Theater  in  New  York.  To  sum 
up  in  brief  then  —  Mr.  Walker  has,  beginning 
in  the  spring  of  1916  and  ending  in  the  spring  of 
1919,  played  seventy-six  weeks  of  repertory,  in 
which  he  has  produced  forty-eight  plays.  This 
does  not  include  the  Seventeen  run  which,  as  I 
have  said,  totals  one  hundred  and  four  weeks  to 
date.  It  is  safe  to  claim  that  this  represents  as 
successful  repertory  work  as  has  been  done  in  the 

viii 


INTRODUCTION 


United  States  so  far.     We  sha-11,  however,  return 
to  that  presently. 

In  the  fall  of  1917,  so  important  to  the  Port 
manteau  company,  a  change  of  management  was 
instituted,  by  which  the  following  staff  came  into 
control:  Stage  Director  —  Gregory  Kelly:  Stage 
Manager — Morgan  Farley:  Musical  Director 
—  Michel  Bernstein:  Manager  —  Harold  Hoi- 
stein:  Press  Representative  —  Alta  May  Cole- 
man:  Treasurer  —  Walter  Herzbrun.  The 
changes  were  excellent,  and  were  thoroughly  jus 
tified  in  their  results.  An  arrangement  was  made 
with  the  Shuberts,  whereby  booking  was  greatly 
facilitated,  and  with  its  structure  thus  reinforced, 
the  Theater  was  in  an  excellent  position  to  "  carry 


on." 


It  may  be  remembered  by  those  who  read  the 
first  book  of  the  Portmanteau  Series  that  in  my 
introduction  I  placed  the  greater  portion  of  my 
emphasis  on  the  theatrical  side;  that  is,  the  Port 
manteau  as  a  portable  theater  rather  than  as  a 
repertory  company.  It  is  my  intention  here  to 
reverse  the  process,  and  this  for  two  reasons. 
First:  Mr.  Walker  has  in  the  last  two  years  by 
no  means  confined  himself  to  the  Portmanteau 
stage.  The  recent  run  at  the  Punch  and  Judy 
Theater  in  New  York  was  upon  a  full  size  stage, 
and  this  was  not  at  all  an  exception.  The  Port 
manteau  was,  and  is,  an  idea,  but  that  idea  has 
no  very  definite  connection  with  repertory  as  such. 
There  is  no  longer  the  need,  in  this  particular 
instance,  that  there  once  was,  for  the  invariable 
use  of  the  Portmanteau,  except  as  convenience  re- 

ix 


INTRODUCTION 


quires.  At  the  very  beginning,  when  the  company 
often  played  for  private  persons,  the  portable 
stage  was  indispensable.  But  so  thoroughly  did 
the  Portmanteau  idea  justify  itself  that  from  be 
ing  a  crutch  it  grew  into  a  handy  staff,  always 
valuable,  but  no  longer  essential.  All  that  has 
been  said  of  it,  and  of  its  possibilities,  is  quite  as 
true  today  as  ever  it  was,  but  now  having  proved 
his  original  thesis,  if  so  it  may  be  called,  Mr. 
Walker  may  well  be  content  to  work  out  the  future 
gradually  and  in  his  own  way.  Second :  the  reper 
tory  idea  is  certainly  of  infinitely  more  importance 
than  any  theatrical  device  or  contrivance,  however 
interesting  and  valuable  such  a  departure  may  be 
in  itself.  As  to  any  difference  in  the  acting  ne 
cessitated  by  the  change  from  a  small  to  a  large 
stage  that  amounts  to  little.  It  is  entirely  a  dif 
ference  in  quality,  an  ability  to  temper  the  inter 
pretation  to  the  surroundings,  and  as  such  would 
apply  as  readily  to  the  staging  and  setting  of  a 
play  as  to  the  acting  itself.  On  a  large  stage  one 
might  take  three  steps  to  convey  an  impression 
where  on  a  small  stage  one  step  would  produce 
the  same  effect.  An  arch  or  pylon  would  obvi 
ously  have  to  be  of  greater  proportions  on  a  large 
stage  than  on  a  small  one.  Yet  in  both  these  in 
stances  the  ultimate  effect  is  precisely  the  same. 
Let  us  turn  then  to  a  consideration  of  the  Port 
manteau,  not  as  a  theater,  but  as  a  repertory  com 
pany. 

There  is  certainly  no  space  here,  and  just  as 
certainly  no  necessity,  for  dwelling  long  upon  the 
prime  importance  of  repertory.  Several  excellent 
books  have  been  written  on  that  absorbing  subject, 

x 


INTRODUCTION 


and  we  may  surely  take  for  granted  that  which 
we  know  beyond  all  doubt  to  be  the  truth,  namely, 
that  repertory  as  opposed  to  the  "  long  run  "  and 
to  the  "  star  "  system  is  the  ultimate  solution  of 
a  most  vexatious  and  perplexing  problem  —  how 
to  change  the  modern  theater  from  an  industry  to 
an  art.  The  disadvantages  of  the  present  mode 
of  procedure  are  too  evident  to  call  for  recapitu 
lation;  witness  the  results  obtained.  On  the  other 
hand  there  can  be  no  question  that  there  is  a  prac 
ticable  and  simple  panacea  in  repertory;  see  what 
has  been  done  by  the  Abbey  company  in  Dublin, 
by  Miss  Horniman's  players  in  Manchester,  by 
the  Scottish  Repertory  Theater,  on  a  smaller  scale, 
in  Glasgow,  by  John  Drinkwater's  repertory  thea 
ter  in  Birmingham,  concerning  which  I  have,  un 
fortunately,  no  exact  data,  but  which  I  understand 
is  doing  remarkable  work  with  distinct  success, 
and  by  the  Portmanteau  company  in  the  United 
States.  It  would  be  well  also  to  include  Charles 
Frohman's  season  at  the  Duke  of  York's  Reper 
tory  Theater  in  London;  in  fact  the  inclusion  of 
this  seventeen  weeks'  season  would  be  inevitable. 
Where  the  experiment  has  failed  it  has  failed 
for  reasons  which  did  not,  in  any  way,  shape  or 
manner,  invalidate  the  principle  at  stake.  Thus, 
to  cite  the  great  example  on  our  own  side  of  the 
water,  the  New  Theater  was  doomed  to  failure 
from  the  very  start  in  the  fact  that  it  was  born 
crippled.  It  may  be  restated  to  advantage,  just 
here,  that  from  the  spring  of  1916  to  the  spring 
of  1919,  a  period  of  three  years,  Mr.  Walker 
has  produced  forty-eight  plays,  has  given  seventy- 
six  weeks  of  repertory,  and  has  had  a  nearly  un- 

xi 


INTRODUCTION 


broken  run  of  one  hundred  and  four  weeks  with 
one  play  which  has  been  commercially  successful 
beyond  the  others.  Of  the  forty-eight  plays  pro 
duced  during  this  time  eighteen  had  never  been 
seen  before  on  any  stage;  four  were  entirely  new 
to  America  (except  for  a  possible  itinerant  ama 
teur  performance)  ;  and  twenty-six  were  revivals, 
modern,  semi-modern,  and  classical.  It  is  my 
belief  that  this  record  will  take  a  creditable 
position  in  the  history  of  American  repertory. 
Abroad,  however,  its  place  is  less  secure,  but 
even  here  the  Portmanteau  is  by  no  means  snowed 
under. 

In  the  other  great  English  speaking  country 
there  are  four  outstanding  examples  of  repertory 
work,  as  has  already  been  stated.  On  the  Conti 
nent  the  situation  is  entirely  different;  there  is 
no  "  problem  "  there,  for  the  repertory  theater 
has  long  been  an  established  fact.  France,  in  the 
Comedie-Franqaise,  and  Germany,  in  several  of 
her  theaters  before  the  war,  merely  provide  us 
with  a  criterion.  In  Great  Britain,  however,  and 
in  America,  we  are  in  the  process  of  building  and 
adjusting,  so  that  the  examples  of  one  will  rea 
sonably  affect  the  other.  At  the  risk  of  being 
misunderstood  we  shall  pause  long  enough  to  call 
attention  to  the  Irving  Place  Theatre^  of  New 
York,  a  German  house  supporting  German  plays, 
and  attended  very  largely  by  a  German  clientele, 
but  notwithstanding  all  this  a  repertory  theater  of 
standing,  and  of  some  distinction,  from  which  we 
might  learn  several  useful  lessons.  However,  it 

1  Since   America's   entrance   in    the   War   given   over   to   the 
"  movies." 

xii 


INTRODUCTION 


is  with  the  Anglo-American  stage  that  we  have  to 
do  at  the  moment. 

Doubtless,  first  in  importance  comes  the  Abbey 
Theater  Company  of  Dublin.  From  December, 
1905,  to  December,  1912,  there  were  produced 
at  the  Abbey  Theater  (I  am  unfortunately  unable 
to  include  the  several  important  tours  made) 
seventy-four  plays,  of  which  seven  were  transla 
tions.  Of  the  rest  but  few  were  revivals,  as  the 
history  of  the  Irish  literary  movement  will  show. 
They  were  plays  written  especially  for  the  theater, 
for  particular  audiences,  and  to  achieve  definite 
purpose  as  propaganda.  Moreover,  when  the 
Abbey  was  tottering  on  the  brink  of  failure,  Miss 
Horniman  came  to  the  rescue  with  a  substantial 
subsidy  which  enabled  the  theater  not  only  to  pro 
ceed,  but  finally  to  establish  itself  on  a  sound  run 
ning  basis.  Mr.  Walker's  company  has  had  to 
fight  its  own  way  from  the  very  start. 

In  Manchester,  Miss  Horniman's  own  reper 
tory  company  at  the  Midland  Theater  and  finally 
at  the  Gaiety  has  been  distinctly  and  brilliantly 
successful.  In  a  period  of  a  little  more  than  two 
years  there  were  produced  fifty-five  plays;  twenty- 
eight  new,  seventeen  revivals  of  modern  English 
plays,  five  modern  translations,  and  five  classics. 
This  is  a  repertory  as  well  balanced  as  it  is  wide. 
In  1910,  however,  there  was  inaugurated  the 
practise  of  producing  each  play  for  a  run  of  one 
week,  so  that  from  that  time  on  the  theater  was 
open  to  the  criticism  of  being  not  a  repertory  in 
the  fullest  sense  of  the  term,  but  a  short  run 
theater.  But  for  that  matter,  I  do  not  think  that 
there  is  a  repertory  theater  either  in  England  or  in 

xiii 


INTRODUCTION 


America  which  fulfills  the  ideal  conditions  set 
down  by  William  Archer  who  had  in  mind,  as  he 
wrote,  the  repertory  theater  of  the  Continent. 

"  When  we  speak  of  a  repertory,  we  mean  a 
number  of  plays  always  ready  for  performance, 
with  nothing  more  than  a  '  run  through  '  rehearsal, 
which,  therefore,  can  be,  and  are,  acted  in  such 
alternation  that  three,  four  or  five  different  plays 
may  be  given  in  the  course  of  a  week.  New 
plays  are  from  time  to  time  added  to  the  repertory, 
and  those  of  them  which  succeed  may  be  per 
formed  fifty,  seventy,  a  hundred  times,  or  even 
more,  in  the  course  of  one  season;  but  no  play 
is  ever  performed  more  than  two  or  three  times 
in  uninterrupted  succession."  * 

This  applies  exactly  to  the  Comedie-Francaise, 
which,  in  the  year  1909,  presented  one  hundred 
and  fifteen  plays,  eighteen  of  which  were  per- 

1  Mr.  John  Palmer,  in  his  book,  "  The  Future  of  the  Theater," 
gives  the  following  as  the  programme  for  the  then,  1913,  pro 
jected  National  Theater.  The  war  intervened,  however,  and 
the  venture  has  been  lost  sight  of  for  the  moment.  This  state 
ment  is  even  more  reasonable  than  that  of  Mr.  Archer,  for  this 
is  intended  for  practical  use  in  England  while  his  was  merely 
taken  from  France. 

"...  it  seems  desirable  to  state  that  a  repertory  theater 
should  be  held  to  mean  a  theater  able  to  present  at  least  two 
different  plays  of  full  length  at  evening  performances  in  each 
completed  week  during  the  annual  season,  and  at  least  three 
different  plays  at  evening  performances  and  matinees  taken  to 
gether  .  .  .  and  the  number  of  plays  presented  in  a  year  should 
not  be  less  than  twenty-five.  A  play  of  full  length  means  a  play 
occupying  at  least  two-thirds  of  the  whole  time  of  any  perform 
ance.  But  two  two-act  plays,  or  three  one-act  plays,  composing 
a  single  programme,  should,  for  the  purposes  of  this  statute,  be 
reckoned  as  equivalent  to  a  play  of  full  length." 

As  Mr.  Palmer  remarks  "  this  statute  is  both  elastic  and  water 
tight." 

E.  H.  B. 

xiv 


INTRODUCTION 


formed  for  the  first  time,  the  remainder  being  a 
part  of  the  regular  body  of  the  repertory  of  that 
theater.  In  the  first  decade  of  the  present  cen 
tury  there  were  no  less  than  two  hundred  and 
eighty-two  plays  added  to  the  repertory  of  the 
Comedie.  It  may  be  of  service  to  remember, 
however,  that  the  Comedie-Francaise  was  estab 
lished  by  royal  decree  in  1680.  If  the  Globe 
Theater  of  Shakespeare's  day  had  lived  and  pros 
pered  up  to  the  present  we  might  have  an  example 
to  match  that  of  France. 

It  is  probable  that  if  one  were  to  use  the  phrase 
"  repertory  in  America  "  the  wise  ones  of  the 
theater  would  raise  their  eye-brows  stiffly  and 
remark,  "  There  is  none."  That  would  be  nearly 
true,  but  not  altogether  so.  It  is  my  desire  here 
to  sketch  in  brief  the  early  beginnings  of  what  has 
been  termed  the  "  independent  theater  "  move 
ment,1  from  which  repertory  in  this  country  un 
questionably  grew,  up  to  the  time  of  the  estab 
lishment  of  the  "  little  theaters  "  which  now  dot 
the  country,  and  into  which  movement  that  of  the 
"  independent  theater  "  eventually  merged. 

In  1887  there  was  inaugurated  by  A.  M.  Pal 
mer  at  the  Madison  Square  Theater,  of  which  he 
was  manager  at  that  time,  a  series  of  "  author's 
matinees  "  which  appear  to  have  been  in  some 
sense  try-outs  for  a  possible  repertory  season. 
Only  three  plays  were  produced,  however,  before 
Mr.  Palmer  decided  against  the  scheme  as  im 
practicable.  It  is  interesting  to  note  that  these 
three  plays  were  all  by  American  authors  —  How- 
ells,  Matthews,  and  Lathrop.  The  attempt  was 

1  See  Appendix  for  complete  repertories. 
XV 


INTRODUCTION 


actually  not  repertory  in  the  strict  sense,  but  it  un 
doubtedly  marks  a  tendency,  slight,  but  evident, 
to  incline  in  the  right  direction. 

Some  four  years  later,  in  the  fall  of  1891,  a 
Mr.  McDowell,  son  of  General  McDowell  of 
Civil  War  fame,  started  the  Theater  of  Arts  and 
Letters  with  the  idea  of  bringing  literature  and  the 
drama  into  closer  relationship.  Five  plays  were 
produced,  and  among  the  names  of  the  authors 
(again  they  were  all  natives)  one  finds  several 
which  have  since  become  famous.  Commercially, 
the  venture  was  a  total  failure,  and  the  authors 
did  not  even  collect  their  full  royalties.  A  short 
tour  was  made  with  several  of  the  more  successful 
plays,  one  by  Clyde  Fitch  (a  one-act  which  was 
afterwards  expanded  into  The  Moth  and  the 
Flame),  one  by  Richard  Harding  Davis,  and  one 
by  Brander  Matthews.  All  three  of  these  were 
one-act.  American  authors  were  willing  enough 
to  write  plays,  but  they  apparently  could  not  suc 
ceed,  except  in  isolated  instances,  in  writing  good 
ones.  There  was  evidently  an  utter  dearth  of 
suitable  material.  Nevertheless,  when  foreign 
plays  were  put  on  no  better  fortune  ensued,  un 
less  they  represented  the  old  school  of  pseudo 
melodrama,  and  farce  adapted  from  the  French 
and  German,  such  as  Augustin  Daly  delighted 
in.  Daly  too  had  discovered  that  to  encourage 
the  American  playwright  was  to  court  disaster. 

In  1897  The  Criterion,  a  New  York  review  of 
rather  eccentric  merit,  endeavored  to  establish  the 
Criterion  Independent  Theater  modeled  on  the 
Theatre-Libre  of  Antoine.  A  company  was  re 
cruited,  headed  by  E.  J.  Henley,  and  performances 

xvi 


INTRODUCTION 


were  given  at  first  the  Madison  Square  Theater, 
and  then  the  Berkeley  Lyceum.  It  was  frankly  in 
tended  that  the  appeal  should  be  to  a  small,  select 
audience,  and,  in  spite  of  the  jeers  of  the  press, 
five  plays  were  produced  —  one  Norwegian,  one 
Italian,  one  French,  one  Spanish,  and  one  Amer 
ican.  A  glance  through  the  list  shows  us  that 
the  American  play,  by  Augustus  Thomas,  is  the 
only  one  which  has  not  since  entered  into  the 
permanent  literature  of  the  stage.  Internal  dif 
ferences,  and  imperfect  rehearsals  combined  to 
overthrow  the  venture  which,  after  one  season, 
was  abandoned.  The  success  of  the  last  produc 
tion,  however,  El  Gran  Galeoto,  inspired  Mr. 
John  Blair  to  produce  Ibsen's  Ghosts  with  Miss 
Mary  Shaw  at  the  Carnegie  Lyceum  in  1899. 
From  this  sprang  The  Independent  Theater,  gen 
erously  backed  financially  by  Mr.  George  Peabody 
Eustis  of  Washington. 

The  list  of  the  patrons  of  this  theater  reads  like 
a  chapter  from  "  Who's  Who."  Many  of  the 
men  associated  with  the  plan  gave  their  services 
free  or  at  a  nominal  cost.  The  three  persons 
more  directly  responsible  for  the  artistic  side  of 
the  work  were  Charles  Henry  Meltzer,  John 
Blair,  and  Vaughan  Kester,  while  among  the  pa 
trons  were  W.  D.  Howells,  Bronson  Howard,  E. 
C.  Stedman,  E.  H.  Sothern,  Charles  and  Daniel 
Frohman,  and  Sir  Henry  Irving.  Six  plays  were 
given,  this  time  none  of  them  of  American  origin. 
The  press  and  critics  were  most  bitter  in  their 
denunciation  of  these  foreign  importations,  as 
they  had  been  on  the  previous  occasion.  There 
was,  however,  on  the  part  of  the  audiences  a  defi- 

xvii 


INTRODUCTION 


nite  tendency  to  let  drop  the  scales  from  their 
eyes,  and  to  awake  to  the  new  forces  in  the  drama 
and  the  theater  as  represented  by  Ibsen,  Hervieu, 
the  Theatre-Libre,  and  the  Independent  Theater. 
But  in  spite  of  all  this,  one  season's  work  saw  the 
conclusion  of  the  project.  A  part  of  the  reper 
tory  was  given  in  other  cities,  notably  Boston  and 
Washington,  but,  though  a  very  real  interest  was 
aroused,  it  was  not  sufficient  to  permit  the  com 
pany  to  continue.  About  two  thousand  dollars 
represented  the  deficit  at  the  end  of  the  season; 
by  no  means  a  discreditable  balance,  albeit  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  ledger,  when  one  considers  the 
circumstances.  The  actual  results  of  the  work 
are  summed  up  in  a  privately  printed  pamphlet 
written  by  Mr.  Meltzer  than  whom  no  one  was 
more  closely  in  touch  with  the  whole  independent 
movement. 

;'  What  have  the  American  *  Independents ' 
achieved  by  their  efforts? 

"  They  have  succeeded,  thanks  to  Mr.  George 
Peabody  Eustis,  the  general  manager  of  the 
scheme,  in  giving  twenty-two  performances  of 
plays  recognized  everywhere  abroad  as  charac 
teristic,  interesting,  and  literary. 

"  They  have  extended  the  '  Independent '  move 
ment  from  New  York  to  Boston  and  Washington. 

"  They  have  encouraged  at  least  one  '  regular  ' 
manager  to  announce  the  production  next  season 
of  an  Ibsen  play. 

"  They  have  revived  discussion  of  the  general 
tendencies  of  modern  drama. 

"  They  have  interested,  and  occasionally 
charmed,  an  intelligent  minority  of  playgoers, 
xviii 


INTRODUCTION 


who  have  grown  weary  of  the  rank  insipidity,  vul 
garity,  and  improbability  of  current  drama. 

44  They  have  bored,  angered,  and  distressed  a 
less  intelligent  majority  of  playgoers  and  critics. 

"  They  have  discovered  at  least  one  new  actress 
of  unusual  worth. 

"  They  have  prepared  the  way,  at  a  by  no  means 
inconsiderable  cost  of  time,  thought,  and  money, 
for  future,  and  perhaps,  more  prosperous  move 
ments  aiming  at  the  reform  of  the  American 


stage." 


Coming  at  the  time  it  did,  sponsored  by  the  best 
minds  in  America,  and  worked  to  its  conclusion  by 
whole  hearted  enthusiasts,  The  Independent  Thea 
ter  did,  beyond  all  doubt,  have  a  very  vitalizing 
effect  on  both  the  stage  and  the  drama  of  this 
country.  The  next  step,  perhaps  the  climactic  one 
of  the  series,  was  longer  in  coming  (1909). 

The  New  Theater  has  been  our  greatest  at 
tempt  and  our  greatest  failure.  The  details  of 
these  two  seasons  have  been  placed  before  the 
public  so  many  times  that  there  is  no  necessity  for 
doing  more  here  than  suggesting  a  broad  outline. 
If  the  enterprise  had,  from  its  very  inception, 
been  in  the  hands  of  capable  men  who  knew  their 
work,  instead  of  being  handicapped  by  wealthy 
amateurs  the  history  of  a  failure  might  never 
have  been  written.  In  its  first  season  The  New 
Theater  presented  thirteen  plays  at  intervals  of  a 
fortnight.  Of  these,  four  were  classics,  three 
were  original  works  by  native  authors,  and  two 
by  contemporary  British  dramatists.  During  the 
second  season,  at  the  end  of  which  the  idea  was 
given  up  and  the  New  Theater  abandoned,  eleven 

xix 


INTRODUCTION 


plays  were  produced;  six  of  these  were  of  British 
origin,  semi-modern;  one  was  a  classic;  three  were 
Belgian,  and  one  was  American.  I  have  counted 
in  this  season,  two  plays  produced  the  season  be 
fore,  the  only  revivals.  Altogether  then,  twenty- 
two  plays  were  given,  only  five  of  which  can  be 
considered  as  home  products.  Mr.  Ames,  the 
Director,  was  balked  at  every  turn  by  the  com 
bined  forces  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  Wall  Street, 
while  the  outrageous  and  impossible  construction 
of  the  theater  itself  proved  an  insurmountable 
handicap.  In  addition  it  was  now  found  almost 
impossible  to  induce  the  American  dramatist  to 
turn  from  the  great  profits  of  the  long  run  Broad 
way  theaters  to  the  acceptance  of  one  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  a  performance  at  the  New  Theater. 
There  was  something  to  be  said  on  both  sides. 
The  New  Theater  was  a  splendid  and  costly  at 
tempt,  and  it  taught  us  several  invaluable  lessons, 
chief  among  them  the  occasional  unimportance  of 
money. 

Probably  next  in  order  comes  the  short  reper 
tory  of  Miss  Grace  George  at  the  Playhouse  in 
1915  and  1917.  This  lasted  for  about  one  sea 
son  and  a  half,  and,  while  there  was  promise  of 
continuation,  the  project  was  finally  abandoned. 
It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  Miss  George  worked 
under  the  peculiar  disadvantage  of  entire  lack  of 
sympathy,  and  indeed,  open  antagonism  as  well, 
on  the  part  of  several  of  her  most  important 
confreres.  The  real  trouble  seemed  to  be  one 
of  those  that  affected  the  New  Theater,  that  is, 
Miss  George  was  totally  unable  to  secure  Amer 
ican  plays  for  her  purposes.  In  the  period  of 

xx 


INTRODUCTION 


her  project  she  produced  seven  plays;  five  the 
first  year,  and  two  the  next.  Of  these,  five  were 
modern  British  plays,  one  was  a  translation  from 
the  French,  and  one  was  semi-modern  American. 
Again  it  will  be  observed  that  American  plays 
were  simply  not  forthcoming,  a  condition  widely 
different  from  that  obtaining  during  the  nineties 
when  the  Theater  of  Arts  and  Letters,  and  the 
Criterion  Independent  held  their  short  sway. 
Miss  George's  effort  was  distinctly  worth  while, 
but  in  the  end  there  was  added  only  another  grave 
stone  to  the  cemetery  of  buried  hopes.1 

With  the  advent  of  the  "  little  theater  "  move 
ment,  from  about  1905,  there  are  many  small 
companies  and  theaters  which  can,  in  a  broad 
sense,  fairly  be  termed  repertory.  To  discuss 
any  number  of  them  would  require  a  book  in  it 
self,  and  the  reader  is  referred  to  "  The  Insurgent 
Theater"  by  Professor  Dickenson  as  the  work 
most  nearly  fulfilling  this  need.  Probably  the 
Washington  Square  Players  of  New  York  are 
typical,  more  or  less,  of  them  all,  and  their  reper 
tory  for  two  years  is  given  in  the  Appendix. 
Aside  from  the  natural  conditions  resulting  from 
the  war,  one  reason  of  their  failure  seems  to 
have  been  their  pernicious  desire  to  be  "  differ 
ent  "  at  any  cost.  In  spite  of  their  excellent  work 
they  ultimately  found  that  cost  to  be  prohibitive, 
but  the  discovery  was  made  too  late.2  The  ma 
jority  of  the  little  theaters  are,  however,  too  en- 

1  Announcement  has  just  been   made   that  Miss   George  will 
continue  her  repertory  during  the  season  of  1919-1920. 

2  They  only  failed  for  $3000,  however:  the  rent  of  a  Broad 
way  theater  for  a  week. 

xxi 


INTRODUCTION 


tirely  provincial  in  their  appeal  to  warrant  an 
assumption  of  any  great  influence,  in  spite  of  their 
vital  and  unquestionable  importance.1 

It  will  be  observed  that  in  speaking  of  Stuart 
Walker's  work  I  have  used  the  phrase  repertory 
company,  not,  repertory  theater.  That  is,  of 
course,  part  of  the  secret.  A  theater  anchored 
to  one  spot  is  obviously  at  a  disadvantage.  It 
cannot  seek  its  audience,  but  must  sit  with  what 
patience  and  capital  it  has  at  its  disposal,  and  wait 
for  the  audience  to  come  to  it.  With  a  touring 
company  the  odds  are  more  even.  An  unsuccess 
ful  month  in  one  city  may  be  made  up  by  a  suc 
cessful  one  in  another.  The  type  of  play  that 
captivates  the  west  may  not  go  at  all  in  the  east, 
and  the  other  way  about.  There  are  plays  now 
on  the  road,  and  which  have  been  there  literally 
for  years,  doing  excellent  business,  which  have 
never  ventured  to  storm  the  very  rocky  coast 
bounding  New  York.  And  there  are  plays  which 
have  had  crowded  houses  in  the  metropolis  which 
have  slumped,  and  deservedly  so,  most  dismally 
when  they  were  taken  out  where  audiences  were 
possessed  of  a  clearer  vision.  Hence  it  is  easy 
to  see  that  Mr.  Walker,  playing  in  both  the  east 
and  the  west,  in  small  cities  and  in  large  ones, 
can  do  what  the  New  Theater  and  the  Playhouse 
could  not  do.  True,  they  could  send  their  com 
panies  out  on  tour,  but  the  New  Theater  with  its 
huge  stage  and  panoramic  scenery  could  find  but 

1  This  statement  hardly  applies  to  The  Neighborhood  Thea 
ter,  or  to  that  successor  to  The  Washington  Square  Players,  The 
Theater  Guild,  the  work  of  which  at  the  Garrick  Theater,  New 
York,  during  the  first  part  of  1919  has  been  excellent  in  the 
very  highest  degree. 

xxii 


INTRODUCTION 


few  theaters  which  could  house  it,  and  the  whole 
idea  of  both  that  and  Miss  George's  company 
was  a  fixed  repertory  theater.  Indeed  in  both  of 
them  the  faults  of  the  "  star  "  system  were  never 
wholly  absent. 

The  facts  that  I  have  been  able  to  give  here 
seem  to  point  to  but  one  conclusion.  That  is, 
that  Stuart  Walker's  repertory  company  stands 
numerically  on  a  par  with  anything  else  of  the  kind 
ever  attempted  in  the  United  States,  and  that  it  is 
not  unworthy  of  comparison  with  the  best  reper 
tory  work  in  England.  It  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that,  in  some  measure,  all  this  has  been  done  on  a 
fairly  small  scale.  There  has  not  been  the  money 
at  hand  to  do  it  otherwise,  nor  has  there  been 
the  necessity.  The  company  may  be  compared 
better  with  the  Gaiety  of  Manchester  than  with 
the  Duke  of  York's  Theater.  And  too,  as  with 
the  Gaiety,  many  of  the  players  have  been  rela 
tively  unknown  before  their  advent  on  the  Port 
manteau  stage.  It  is  the  definite  mission,  or  some 
part  of  it  at  any  rate,  of  the  repertory  company  to 
encourage  new  dramatists,  new  players,  and  new 
stage  effects  when  such  encouragement  is  advis 
able.  To  be  merely  different  is  by  no  means  to  be 
worth  while. 

The  three  plays  included  in  this  volume  have  all 
been  presented  successfully  both  in  the  east  and 
in  the  west.  The  two  long  plays  —  The  Lady  of 
the  Weeping  Willow  Tree  and  Jonathan  Makes  a 
Wish  —  both  have  the  distinction  of  being  popu 
lar  with  audiences  and  unpopular  with  critics,  a 
condition  of  affairs  not  as  unique  as  it  might  seem. 
As  for  the  third,  The  Fery^  Naked  Boy,  it  is  a  thor- 

xxiii 


INTRODUCTION 


oughly  delightful  trifle,  unimportant  as  drama, 
yet  very  perfect  in  itself,  and  has  been  liked  by 
nearly  everyone.  Combining,  as  it  does,  comedy 
and  sentiment,  it  possesses  all  the  elements  that  go 
to  make  for  success  with  the  average  audience. 

The  Lady  of  the  Weeping  Willow  Tree  is 
founded  on  an  old  Japanese  legend,  how  old  no 
one  knows.  Mr.  Walker  became  interested  in 
Japanese  folk-lore  through  a  collection  of  bal 
lads;  it  is  amusing  to  observe  how  his  fondness 
for  ballads  has  followed  him  through  all  his  work, 
and  this  play  was  the  result.  From  the  first  it 
went  well.  Apparently  no  one  could  resist  the 
pathos  of  the  intensely  human  story  which  culmi 
nated  in  so  tragic  a  form.  One  might  think  that 
the  appeal  in  a  play  of  this  type,  written  by  an 
author  so  well  known  as  an  artist  in  stage-craft, 
would  be  largely  visual.  While  that  appeal  is 
unquestionably  there  in  abundance,  the  real  essence 
of  the  tale  is  the  vitally  human  quality  of  its  char 
acters.  One  is  indeed  inclined  to  believe  that  we 
take  our  pleasures  sadly,  when  he  has  seen  an 
audience  quite  dissolved  in  tears  at  a  perform 
ance  of  this  play,  and  all  the  while  enjoying  them 
selves  unutterably.  It  is  a  drama  of  imagination 
and  of  emotion.  The  cold,  hard,  and  more  often 
than  not  deceiving  light  of  the  intellect  plays  but  a 
small  part.  It  is  the  human  heart  with  its  pas 
sions,  its  fears,  its  regrets,  and  its  aspirations  that 
concerns  us  here;  not  the  human  mind  with  its 
essentially  microcosmic  point  of  view,  and  its  petty, 
festering  egoism.  The  play  is  beautiful  because 
it  is  true,  and  equally  it  is  true  because  it  is  beau 
tiful.  It  seems  to  me  quite  the  best  and  soundest 

xxiv 


INTRODUCTION 


piece  of  work  Mr.  Walker  has  done  so  far,  though 
he  himself  prefers  his  later  play,  Jonathan  Makes 
a  Wish. 

This  last  play  is  more  realistic  —  stupid  term ! 
—  than  anything  of  a  serious  nature  that  the  au 
thor  has  so  far  attempted.  It  is,  however,  the 
realism  of  Barrie  rather  than  that  of  Brieux,  and 
this  at  any  rate  is  consoling.  The  first  act  is  ex 
traordinary,  splendid  in  thought,  in  technique,  and 
in  execution.  Therein  lies  the  trouble,  if  trouble 
there  be.  Neither  of  the  two  acts  following  can 
reach  the  level  of  the  first,  and  with  the  opening 
of  the  second  act  the  play  gradually,  though  hardly 
perceptibly,  declines,  not  in  interest,  but  in 
strength.  The  transposition  of  the  character  of 
the  Tramp  from  an  easy  going  good  nature  in 
the  first  act  to  that  of  a  Dickens  villain  in  the 
second  may  require  explanation.  The  last  sensa 
tion  the  boy  has  is  that  of  the  blow  on  his  head, 
and  his  last  visualization  is  that  of  the  Tramp's 
face  bending  over  him.  Thus,  in  his  delirium,  the 
two  would  inevitably  be  associated.  The  story  of 
the  delirium,  the  second  act,  is  peculiarly  well 
done.  One  feels  the  slight  haziness  of  outline, 
the  great  consequence  of  actually  inconsequential 
events,  the  morbid  terror  lurking  always  in  the 
near  background,  which  are  a  very  part  and  parcel 
of  that  strange  psychological  condition  which  is 
here  made  to  play  a  spiritual  part.  The  last  act 
suffers  for  want  of  material.  In  reality,  all  that 
is  necessary  is  to  wind  up  the  play  speedily  and 
happily.  It  seems  probable  that  the  introduction 
of  the  deliciously  charming  Frenchwoman,  played 
so  delightfully  by  Margaret  Mower,  would  give 

XXV 


INTRODUCTION 


the  needed  color  and  substance  to  this  portion. 
As  it  is,  one  feels  a  little  something  lacking  —  but 
only  a  little.  That  the  play  is,  as  one  pseudo- 
critic  remarked,  an  argument  in  favor  of  infant 
playwrights,  is  too  absurd  to  discuss.  If  it  argues 
at  all,  it  is  that  the  relationship  between  the  child 
world  and  the  adult  must  be  democratic,  not  ty 
rannic,  and  that  flowers  grow,  like  weeds,  only 
when  they  are  encouraged,  not  trod  upon.  The 
play  is  interesting,  true,  and  imaginative  to  a  de 
gree;  if  it  is  not  wholly  satisfactory,  it  but  partakes 
of  the  faults  of  virtue.  Audiences,  young,  old, 
metropolitan  and  urban,  have  responded  to  the 
work  in  a  manner  which  left  no  doubt  of  their 
approval.  In  New  York  it  was  slow  in  taking 
hold,  and  unfortunately  the  company  was  obliged 
to  leave  to  fill  other  engagements  just  at  the  time 
when  a  more  definite  success  was  at  hand.  In 
the  west  the  spirit  of  the  thing  caught  at  once; 
there  was  no  hesitation  there. 

From  the  beginning  there  has  been  a  very  defi 
nite  plan  in  Mr.  Walker's  mind  as  to  what  his 
objective  point  was  to  be,  and  especially  in  view 
of  what  I  have  said  of  his  company  in  connection 
with  repertory  it  may  be  interesting  to  suggest 
the  outline  of  that  plan  here.  This  is  no  less  than 
to  establish  in  some  city  a  permanent  repertory 
theater  and  company,  and  to  use  the  Portmanteau 
Theater  and  company  for  touring  purposes.  It  is 
an  amusing  thought;  the  little  theater  would  shoot 
out  from  under  the  wing  of  its  parent  as  a  raiding 
party  detaches  itself  from  its  company,  but  the 
consequences  would  be,  one  hopes,  less  destructive 
on  both  sides.  The  thought,  however,  is  really 

xxvi 


INTRODUCTION 


much  more  than  amusing;  it  is  of  very  real  con 
sequence  and  importance.  It  will  readily  be  seen 
that  in  this  we  have  a  combination  of  the  advan 
tages  of  both  the  stationary  and  the  touring  rep 
ertory  company,  and  hence,  double  the  chances  of 
success.  And  Mr.  Walker  would  by  no  means  be 
restricted  to  one  Portmanteau  Theater.  If  con 
ditions  warranted  it  he  could  as  easily  construct 
and  send  out  a  dozen  on  the  road,  taking  his  work 
into  every  nook  and  corner  of  the  theater-loving 
country.  In  fact  the  ramifications  of  the  idea  are 
so  vast  that  it  is  useless  to  endeavor  to  do  more 
than  suggest  them  here.  The  reader  will  see  for 
himself  what  great  possibilities  are  involved,  and 
what  an  effect  this  might  have  on  all  repertory 
work  in  America. 

During  the  last  two  years  the  work  of  Mr. 
Walker's  company  has  improved  in  every  way. 
The  addition  of  new  members,  such  as  Margaret 
Mower,  and  particularly  George  Gaul,  whose 
performance  in  The  Book  of  Job  was,  in  my  opin 
ion,  one  of  the  finest  ever  seen  on  the  American 
stage,  has  naturally  served  to  strengthen  the  fab 
ric  greatly.  The  older  members  of  the  company, 
Gregory  Kelly,  McKay  Morris,  Edgar  Stehli  and 
many  others,  have  all  improved  in  their  work, 
increasing  in  assurance  and  finish.  The  success 
that  has  attended  the  fortunes  of  the  theater  has 
made  possible  finer  stage  effects  (the  Dunsany  pro 
ductions  have  been  immensely  improved)  and  the 
repertory  has  been  greatly  enriched  by  some  really 
fine  plays,  and  has  been  enhanced  by  others  of  a 
more  popular  character.  One  thing  must  be  said, 
however,  in  all  fairness.  It  has  seemed  to  the 
xxvii 


INTRODUCTION 


writer  that  of  late  there  has  been  an  increasing 
tendency  on  the  part  of  Mr.  Walker's  scenic  art 
ists  and  costume  designers  to  fall  away  from  the 
plain  surfaces  and  unbroken  lines  of  the  new  stage 
craft,  and  to  achieve  an  effect  which  one  can  only 
characterize  as  "  spotty."  This  can  best  be  ap 
preciated  by  those  who  know  the  two  American 
productions  of  Dunsany's  one-act  play,  The  Tents 
of  the  Arabs.  I  am  rather  regretfully  of  the 
opinion  that,  aside  from  the  actual  playing  and 
reading  of  the  parts,  Sam  Hume's  production  was 
superior  to  that  of  Mr.  Walker.  An  opulence  of 
variegated  colors  does  not  always  suggest  as  much 
as  flat  masses.  The  set  used  by  Mrs.  Hapgood 
in  her  production  of  Torrence's  Simon  the  Cyre- 
nian  illustrates  excellently  the  desired  result. 
It  is,  however,  Stuart  Walker's  privilege  to  adapt 
the  new  ideas,  and  to  make  such  use  of  the  old,  as 
seems  best  to  him.  One  is  sometimes  inclined  to 
miss,  nevertheless,  the  simplicity  of  his  earlier 
work,  especially  when  it  is  compared  with  the 
splendor,  not  always  well  used  or  well  advised, 
of  his  later  productions.  His  company  has  al 
ways  read  beautifully,  and  its  reading  is  now  bet 
ter  than  ever.  The  only  adverse  criticism,  if  ad 
verse  criticism  there  be  at  all,  lies  against  the  Stage 
Director  himself.  I  am  especially  glad  to  be  able 
to  say  this,  for  the  producer  whose  work  is  too 
good,  too  smooth,  is  surely  stumbling  to  a  fall. 
The  very  fact  that  there  is  definite  room  for  im 
provement  in  the  Portmanteau  presentations, 
leads  one  to  feel,  knowing  the  record  of  the  com 
pany,  that  these  improvements  will  be  made. 
To  return  for  a  moment  to  an  earlier  phase  of 
xxviii 


INTRODUCTION 


our  discussion,  it  may  be  both  interesting  and  prof 
itable  to  note  the  fact  that  while  the  Abbey,  the 
Manchester,  and  the  New  Theaters  were  all  aided 
by  material  subsidies,  the  Portmanteau  has  stood 
on  its  own  legs,  albeit  they  wabbled  a  trifle  on  oc 
casion,  from  the  very  start.  A  little,  but  only  a 
little,  money  has  been  borrowed,  and  there  has 
been  just  one  gift,  that  of  $5000.  This  last  was 
accepted  for  the  reason  that  it  would  enable  the 
Theater  to  mount  sets  and  costume  plays  in  a 
rather  better  fashion  than  heretofore.  While  it 
was  not  absolutely  essential  to  the  continued  ex 
istence  of  the  Portmanteau  it  made  presently  pos 
sible  productions  which  otherwise  would  have 
been  postponed  indefinitely;  in  British  army  slang 
it  would  be  called  "  bukshee,"  meaning  extra,  like 
the  thirteenth  cake  in  the  dozen.  The  record  of 
the  Portmanteau  is  its  own,  and  that  of  its  many 
friends  who  have  been  generous  in  contributing 
that  rarest  of  all  gifts,  sympathetic  understanding. 
Before  withdrawing  my  intrusive  finger  from 
the  Portmanteau  pie  I  should  like  to  pay  a  small 
tribute  to  Stuart  Walker  himself.  I  do  not  think 
I  have  ever  known  a  man  who  gave  more  unspar 
ingly  of  himself  in  all  his  work.  That  dragon  of 
the  theater,  the  expense  account,  has  often  neces 
sitated  someone  shouldering  the  work  of  half  a 
dozen  who  were  not  there.  Always  it  is  Mr. 
Walker  who  has  taken  the  task  upon  his  back, 
cheerfully  and  willingly,  and  despite  physical  ills, 
under  which  a  less  determined  man  would  have 
succumbed.  His  never  wavering  belief  in  his  work 
and  his  ability  to  do  that  work  have  brought  him 
through  many  a  pitfall.  It  is  not  a  petty  vanity, 

xxix 


INTRODUCTION 


but  the  strong  conceit  of  the  artist;  that  which  most 
of  us  call  by  the  vague  term  ideals.  The  spirit 
of  the  Portmanteau  is  to  be  found  alike  in  its  of 
fices  and  on  its  stage;  a  spirit  of  unselfish  belief 
that  somehow,  somewhere,  we  all  shall  "  live  hap 
pily  ever  after  "  if  only  we  do  the  work  we  are 
set  to  do  faithfully  here  and  now.  The  theater, 
the  organization  which  has  that  behind  it,  in  con 
junction  with  a  keenly  intelligent  co-operation  or 
team-play,  will  take  a  great  deal  of  punishment 
before  it  goes  down.  Mistakes  have  been  made, 
of  course;  otherwise  neither  producer  nor  com 
pany  were  human;  but  it  is  in  the  acknowledgment 
and  rectification  of  errors  that  men  become  great. 

The  repertory  theater,  the  new  drama,  and 
stage  craft,  have  an  able  ally  in  the  Portmanteau. 
We  may  look  far  afield  for  that  elixir  which  will 
transmute  the  base  metal  of  the  commercial  thea 
ter  to  the  bright  gold  of  art,  but  unless  we  remem 
ber  that  the  pot  of  treasure  is  to  be  found  at  this 
end  of  the  rainbow,  and  not  the  other,  our  search 
will  be  in  vain. 

EDWARD  HALE  BIERSTADT. 

New  York  City, 
April,  1919. 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

I  wish  to  acknowledge  with  gratitude  the  assistance 
given  me  by  Mr.  Brander  Matthews,  Mr.  Montrose 
Moses,  and  by  Mr.  Charles  Henry  Meltzer  in  obtaining 
data,  verifying  dates  and  names,  and  by  their  kindly  ad 
vice. 

E.  H.  B. 

XXX 


THE  PROLOGUE  TO  THE 
PORTMANTEAU  THEATER; 


THE  PROLOGUE 


As  the  lights  in  the  theater  are  lowered  the 
voice  of  MEMORY  is  heard  as  she  passes  through 
the  audience  to  the  stage. 

MEMORY 

Once  upon  a  time,  but  not  so  very  long  ago,  you 
very  grown-ups  believed  in  all  true  things.  You 
believed  until  you  met  the  Fourteen  Doubters 
who  were  so  positive  in  their  unbelief  char:  you 
weakly  cast  aside  the  things  that  made  you 
happy  for  the  hapless  things  that  they  were  call 
ing  life.  You  were  afraid  or  ashamed  to  per 
sist  in  your  old  thoughts,  and  strong  in  your 
folly  you  discouraged  your  little  boy,  and  other 
people's  little  boys  from  the  pastimes  they  had 
loved.  Yet  all  through  the  early  days  you  had 
been  surely  building  magnificent  cities,  and  all 
about  you  laying  out  magnificent  gardens,  and, 
with  an  April  pool  you  had  made  infinite  seas 
where  pirates  fought  or  mermaids  played  in 
coral  caves.  Then  came  the  Doubters,  laugh 
ing  and  jeering  at  you,  and  you  let  your  cities, 
and  gardens,  and  seas  go  floating  in  the  air  — 
unseen,  unsung  —  wonderful  cities,  and  gardens, 
and  seas,  peopled  with  the  realest  of  peo 
ple.  ...  So  now  you,  and  he,  and  I  are  met  at 
the  portals.  Pass  through  them  with  me.  I 
have  something  there  that  you  think  is  lost. 
The  key  is  the  tiny  regret  for  the  real  things, 
the  little  regret  that  sometimes  seems  to  weight 
3 


THE  PROLOGUE 


your  spirit  at  twilight,  and  compress  all  life  into 
a  moment's  longing.  Come,  pass  through. 
You  cannot  lose  your  way.  Here  are  your 
cities,  your  gardens,  and  your  April  pools. 
Come  through  the  portals  of  once  upon  a  time, 
but  not  so  very  long  ago  —  today  —  now ! 

She  passes  through  the  soft  blue  curtains,  but 
unless  you  are  willing  to  follow  her,  turn  back 
now.  There  are  only  play-things  here. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  WEEPING 
WILLOW  TREE 

A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


CHARACTERS 

O-SODE-SAN,  an  old  woman 

O-KATSU-SAN 

OBAA-SAN 

THE  GAKI  OF  KOKORU,  an  eater  of  unrest 

RIKI,  a  poet 

AOYAGI 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 


ACT  I 

[Before  the  House  of  Obaa-San.     At  the  right 
back  is  a  weeping  willow  tree,  at  the  left  the* 
simple  little  house  of  Obaa-San. 
[O-Sode-San  and  O-Katsu-San  enter. 
O-SODE-SAN 

Oi!  .  .  .  Oi!  .   .  .  Obaa-San! 

O-KATSU-SAN 

Obaa-San!   .  .  .  Grandmother! 

O-SODE-SAN 

She  is  not  there. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

Poor  Obaa-San. 

O-SODE-SAN 

Why  do  you  always  pity  Obaa-San?     Are  her 
clothes  not  whole?     Has  she  not  her  full  store 
of  rice? 
O-KATSU-SAN 

Ay! 

O-SODE-SAN 

Then  what  more  can  one  want  —  a  full  hand, 
a  full  belly,  and  a  warm  body ! 

O-KATSU-SAN 

A  full  heart,  perhaps. 

O-SODE-SAN 

What  does  Obaa-San  know  of  a   heart,   silly 
O-Katsu?     She  has  had  no  husband  to  die  and 
leave  her  alone.     She  has  had  no  child  to  die 
and  leave  her  arms  empty. 
O-KATSU-SAN 

Hai !     Hai !     She  does  not  know. 
7 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

O-SODE-SAN 

She  has  had  no  lover  to  smile  upon  her  and  then 
—  pass  on. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

But  Obaa-San  is  not  happy. 

O-SODE-SAN 

Pss-s ! 

O-KATSU-SAN 

She  may  be  lonely  because  she  has  never  had 
any  one  to  love  or  to  love  her. 

O-SODE-SAN 

How  could  one  love  Obaa-San?  She  is  too 
hideous  for  love.  She  would  frighten  the  chil 
dren  away  —  and  even  a  drunken  lover  would 
laugh  in  her  ugly  face.  Obaa-San  1  The 
grandmother ! 

O-KATSU-SAN 

O-Sode,  might  we  not  be  too  cruel  to  her  ? 

O-SODE-SAN 

If  we  could  not  laugh  at  Obaa-San,  how  then 
could  we  laugh?     She  has  been  sent  from  the 
dome  of  the  sky  for  our  mirth. 
O-KATSU-SAN 

I  do  not  know !     I  do  not  know !     Sometimes  I 

think  I  hear  tears  in  her  laugh! 
O-SODE-SAN 

Pss-s !     That  is  no  laugh.     Obaa-San  cackles 

like  an  old  hen. 
O-KATSU-SAN 

I  think  she  is  unhappy  now  and  then  —  always, 

perhaps. 
O-SODE-SAN 

Has   she  not  her  weeping  willow  tree  —  the 

grandmother? 

8 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

O-KATSU-SAN 

Ay.     She  loves  the  tree. 

O-SODE-SAN 

The  grandmother  of  the  weeping  willow  tree ! 
It's  well  for  the  misshapen,  and  the  childless, 
and  the  loveless  to  have  a  tree  to  love. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

But,  O-Sode,  the  weeping  willow  tree  can  not 
love  her.  Perhaps  even  old  Obaa-San  longs 
for  love. 

O-SODE-SAN 

Do  we  not  come  daily  to  her  to  talk  to  her? 
And  to  ask  her  all  about  her  weeping  willow 
tree? 

O-KATSU-SAN 

Oi !     Obaa-San. 
[A  sigh  is  heard. 
O-SODE-SAN 

What  was  that,  O-Katsu? 

O-KATSU-SAN 

Someone  sighed  —  a  deep,  hard  sigh. 

O-SODE-SAN 

Oi !     Obaa-San !     Grandmother ! 
[The  sigh  is  almost  a  moan. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

It  seemed  to  come  from  the  weeping  willow  tree. 

O-SODE-SAN 

O-Katsu !  Perhaps  some  evil  spirit  haunts  the 
tree. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

Some  hideous  Gaki !  Like  the  Gaki  of  Kokoru 
—  the  evil  ghost  that  can  feed  only  on  the  un 
rest  of  humans.  Their  unhappiness  is  his  food. 
He  has  to  find  misery  in  order  to  live,  and  win 
9 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

his  way  back  once  more  to  humanity.     To  dif 
ferent  men  he  changes  his  shape  at  will,  and 
sometimes  is  invisible. 
O-SODE-SAN 

Quick,  Katsu,  let  us  go  to  the  shrine  • —  and  pray 
—  and  pray. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

Ay.     There ! 

[They  go  out.      The  Gaki  appears. 
THE   GAKI 

Why  did  you  sigh? 

THE   VOICE    OF   THE    TREE 

0  Gaki  of  Kokoru !     My  heart  hangs  within 
me  like  the  weight  of  years  on  Obaa-San. 

THE   GAKI 

Why  did  you  moan? 

THE    TREE 

The  tree  is  growing  —  and  it  tears  my  heart. 
THE   GAKI 

1  live  upon  your  unrest.     Feed  me !     Feed  me ! 
[The  tree  sighs  and  moans  and  The  Gaki  seems 
transported  with  joy. 

THE    TREE 

Please !     Please !     Give  me  my  freedom. 

THE   GAKI 

Where  then  should  I  feed?  Unless  I  feed  on 
your  unhappiness  I  should  cease  to  live  —  and 
I  must  live. 

THE   TREE 

Someone  else,  perchance,  may  suffer  in  my 
stead. 

THE   GAKI 

I  care  not  where  or  how  I  feed.     I  am  in  the 
sixth  hell,  and  if  I  die  in  this  shape  I  must  re- 
10 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

main  in  this  hell  through  all  the  eternities. 
One  like  me  must  feed  his  misery  by  making 
others  miserable.  I  can  not  rise  through  the 
other  five  hells  to  human  life  unless  I  have  hu 
man  misery  for  my  food. 

THE    TREE 

Oh,  can't  you  feed  on  joy  —  on  happiness,  on 
faith? 

THE   GAKI 

Faith?  Yes,  perhaps  —  but  only  on  perfect 
faith.  If  I  found  perfect  faith  —  ah,  then  — 
I  dare  not  dream. —  There  is  no  faith. 

THE    TREE 

Do  not  make  me  suffer  more.  Let  me  enjoy 
the  loveliness  of  things. 

THE    GAKI 

Would  you  have  someone  else  suffer  in  your 
stead? 

THE   TREE 

Someone  else  —  someone  else  — 

THE   GAKI 

Ay  —  old  Obaa-San  —  she  whom  they  call  the 
grandmother. 
[The  Tree  moans. 
THE   GAKI 

She  will  suffer  in  your  stead. 

THE    TREE 

No!  No!  She  loves  me!  She  of  all  the 
world  loves  me !  No  —  not  she ! 

THE   GAKI 

It  shall  be  she! 

THE   TREE 

I  shall  not  leave ! 

II 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

THE   GAKI 

You  give  me  better  food  than  I  have  ever 
known.  You  wait!  You  wait! 

THE   TREE 

Here  comes  Obaa-San!  Do  not  let  her  suffer 
for  me ! 

THE   GAKI 

You  shall  be  free  —  as  free  as  anyone  can  be  — 
when  I  have  made  the  misery  of  Obaa-San  com 
plete. 

THE    TREE 

She  has  never  fully  known  her  misery.  Her 
heart  is  like  an  iron-bound  chest  long-locked, 
with  the  key  lost. 

THE    GAKI 

We  shall  find  the  key!    «We  shall  find  the  key! 

THE    TREE 

I  shall  warn  her. 

THE   GAKI 
Try! 

THE    TREE 

Alas!     I  can  not  make  her  hear!     I  can  not 
tell  her  anything. 
THE   GAKI 

She  can  not  understand  you !  She  can  not  see 
me  unless  I  wish !  Earth  people  never  see  or 
hear ! 

THE   TREE 

Hai!     Hai!     Hai! 

[Obaa-San  enters.  She  is  old,  very,  very  old, 
and  withered  and  misshapen.  There  is  only 
laughter  in  your  heart  when  you  look  at  Obaa- 
San  unless  you  see  her  eyes.  Then  — 

12 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

OBAA-SAN 

My  tree!      My  little  tree !     Why  do  you  sigh? 

THE    TREE 

Hai!     Hai!     Hai ! 

OBAA-SAN 

Sometimes  I  think  I  pity  you.     Yes,  dear  tree ! 

THE    TREE 

Hai!     Hai!     Hai! 

THE    GAKI 

Now  I  am  a  traveller.  She  sees  me  pleasantly. 
—  Grandmother ! 

OBAA-SAN 

Ay,  sir! 

THE    GAKI 

Which  way  to  Kyushu? 

OBAA-SAN 

You  have  lost  your  way.  Far,  far  back  beyond 
the  ferry  landing  at  Ishiyama  to  your  right. 
That  is  the  way  to  Kyushu. 

THE    GAKI 

Ah,  me ! 

OBAA-SAN 

You  are  tired.  Will  you  not  sit  and  rest?  — 
Will  you  not  have  some  rice? 

THE    GAKI 

Oh,  no. —  Where  is  your  brood,  grandmother? 

OBAA-SAN 

I  have  no  brood.  I  am  no  grandmother.  I 
am  no  mother. 

THE    GAKI 

What!     Are  there  tears  in  your  voice? 

OBAA-SAN 

Tears !     Why  should  I  weep  ? 
13 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

THE   GAKI 

I  do  not  know,  grandmother ! 

OBAA-SAN 

I  am  no  grandmother !  —  Who  sent  you  here 
to  laugh  at  me?  —  O-Sode-San?  'Tis  she  who 
laughs  at  me,  because  — 

THE    GAKI 

No  one,  old  woman  — 

OBAA-SAN 

Yes,     yes,     old    woman.     That     is     it.     Old 
woman!  —  Who  are  you?     I  am  not  wont  to 
cry  my  griefs  to  any  one. 
THE    GAKI 

Griefs?     You  have  griefs? 

OBAA-SAN 

Ay!     Even  /  —  she  whom  they  call  Obaa-San 

—  have  griefs. —  Even  I !     But  they  are  locked 
deep  within  me.     No  one  knows! 

THE   GAKI 

Someone  must  know. 

OBAA-SAN 

I  shall  tell  no  one. 

THE    GAKI 

Someone  must  know! 

OBAA-SAN 

You  speak  like  some  spirit  —  and  I  feel  that  I 
must  obey. 

THE    GAKI 

Someone  must  know ! 

OBAA-SAN 

I  shall  not  speak.  Who  cares?  —  What  is  it 
I  shall  do?  Tell  my  story  —  unlock  my  heart 

—  so  that  O^Sode-San  may  laugh  and  laugh  and 

14 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

laugh.  Is  it  not  enough  that  some  evil  spirit 
feeds  upon  my  deep  unrest? 

THE    GAKI 

How  can  one  feed  upon  your  unrest  when  you 
lock  it  in  your  heart?  (The  voices  of  O-Sode- 
San  and  O-Katsu-San  are  heard  calling  to  Obaa- 
San)  Here  come  some  friends  of  yours. 
Tell  them  your  tale. 
[He  goes  out. 

OBAA-SAN 

Strange.  I  feel  that  I  must  speak  out  my  heart. 
[O-Sode-San  and  O-Katsu-San  come  in. 

O-SODE-SAN 

Good  morning,  grandmother! 

OBAA-SAN  (with  a  strange  wist  fulness  in  her  tone] 
Good  morning,  O-Sode-San.  Good  morning, 
O-Katsu-San.  May  the  bright  day  bring  you 
a  bright  heart. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

And  you,  Obaa-San. 

O-SODE-SAN 

How  is  the  weeping  willow  tree,  grandmother? 

OBAA-SAN 

It  is  there  —  close  to  me. 

O-SODE-SAN 

And  does  it  speak  to  you,  grandmother  — 

OBAA-SAN 

I  am  no  grandmother!  I  am  no  grandmother! 
I  am  no  mother!  O-Sode,  can  you  not  under 
stand?  I  am  no  mother. —  I  am  no  wife. — 
There  is  no  one.5 —  I  am  only  an  old  woman. — 
In  the  spring  I  see  the  world  turn  green  and  I 
hear  the  song  of  happy  birds  and  feel  the  per 
fumed  balmy  air  upon  my  cheek  —  and  every 

15 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

spring  that  cheek  is  older  and  more  wrinkled 
and  I  have  always  been  alone.  I  see  the  stars 
on  a  summer  night  and  listen  for  the  dawn  — 
and  there  never  has  been  a  strong  hand  to  touch 
me  nor  tiny  fingers  to  reach  out  for  me.  I  have 
heard  the  crisp  autumn  winds  fight  the  falling 
leaves  and  I  have  known  that  long  winter  days 
and  nights  were  coming  —  and  I  have  always 
been  alone  —  alone.  I  have  pretended  to  you 

what     else     could    I     do?     Grandmother! 

Grandmother!     Every    time    you    speak    the 
name,  the  emptiness  of  my  life  stands  before  me 
like  a  royal  Kakemono  all  covered  with  unliving 
people. 
O-SODE-SAN 

You  never  seemed  to  care. 

OBAA-SAN 

Did  I  not  care!  Grandmother!  Grand 
mother!  Why?  Because  I  loved  a  weeping 
willow  tree.  Because  to  me  it  was  real.  It 
was  my  baby.  But  no  lover  ever  came  to  woo. 
No  words  ever  came  to  me. —  Think  you,  O- 
Sode-San,  that  the  song  of  birds  in  the  branches 
is  ease  to  an  empty  heart.  Think  you  that  the 
wind  amongst  the  leaves  soothes  the  mad  un 
rest  in  here.  (She  beats  her  breast)  I  have 
no  one  —  no  One.  I  talk  to  my  weeping  willow 
tree  —  but  there  is  no  answer  —  no  answer, 
O-Sode-San  —  only  stillness  — ^and  yet  — 
sometimes  I  think  I  hear  a  sigh. —  Grand 
mother!  Grandmother!  There!  Is  that 
enough?  I've  bared  my  heart  to  you.  Go 
spread  the  news  —  I  am  lonely  and  old  —  old. 
16 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

—  I  have  always  been  lonely.     Go  spread  the 
news. 
0-KATSU-SAN 

No,  Obaa-San.     We  shall  not  spread  the  news. 
No  one  shall  know. 
O-SODE-SAN 

But  —  we  pity  you. 

OBAA-SAN 

I  need  no  pity. —  Now  my  heart  is  unlocked. 
The  dread  Gaki  of  Kokoru  who  feeds  upon  un 
rest  can  come  to  me  and  feed  upon  my  pain.  I 
care  not. 

THE   TREE 

Hai!     Hal!     Hai! 

O-KATSU-SAN 

Someone  sighs. 

OBAA-SAN 

Yes.  It  is  my  tree.  Perhaps  there,  too, 
someone  in  deep  distress  is  imprisoned  —  as  I 
am  imprisoned  in  this  body. —  Hai !  You  do 
not  know.  You  do  not  know ! 

O-SODE-SAN 

Obaa-San  —  we   have  been  hurting.     I  never 

knew  —  I  am  sorry,  Obaa-San. 
0-KATSU-SAN 

You  have  been  lonely,  Obaa-San,  but  you  have 

always  been  lonely.     I  know  the  having  and  I 

know  the  losing. 
O-SODE-SAN 

Ay.  'Tis  better  to  long  for  love  than  to  have 
it  —  and  then  lose.  Look  at  me,  whom  the 
villagers  call  the  bitter  one.  He  came  to  me 
so  long  ago. —  It  was  spring,  Obaa-San,  and 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

perfume  filled  the  air  and  birds  were  singing 
and  his  voice  was  like  the  voice  from  the  sky- 
dome  —  all  clear  and  wonderful.  Together 
we  saw  the  cherry  trees  bloom  —  once:  and  on 
a  summer  night  we  saw  the  wonder  of  the  fire 
fly  fete.  My  heart  was  young  and  life  was 
beautiful.  We  watched  the  summer  moon  — 
and  when  the  autumn  came  —  Ai !  Ai !  Ai ! 
Obaa-San. —  I  knew  a  time  of  love  —  and  oh, 
the  time  of  hopelessness !  And  I  shut  my  heart. 
I  did  not  see,  Obaa-San. 

OBAA-SAN 

You  knew  his  love,  O-Sode-San.  You  touched 
his  hand. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

But  what  is  that?  To  her  —  my  little  girl  — 
I  gave  all  my  dreams.  I  felt  her  baby  hands 
in  mine  and  in  the  night  I  could  reach  out  to 
her.  I  lived  for  her.  And  then,  one  day  — 
Obaa-San,  I  had  known  the  joy  of  motherhood 
and  I  had  known  the  ecstasy  of  —  child  —  and 
now —  Her  little  life  with  me  was  only  a 
dream  of  spring,  but  still  my  back  is  warm  with 
the  touch  of  her  babyhood.  The  little  toys  still 
dance  before  my  eyes.  Oh,  that  was  long  ago. 
—  Now  all  is  black. 

OBAA-SAN 

All  blackness  can  never  fill  a  mother's  heart. — 
O-Katsu-San,  you  have  known  the  baby's  hand 
in  yours.  But  I  am  old  —  and  I  have  never 
known,  can  never  know. —  I'd  go  to  the  lowest 
hells  if  once  I  might  but  know  the  touch  of  my 
own  child's  hand. 

18 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

THE    TREE 

Hai!     Hai!     Hai 

OBAA-SAN 

Just   once  —  for  one   short   day  —  to   fill   the 
empty  place  in  my  heart  that  has  always  been 
empty  —  and  a  pain  — 
O-SODE-SAN 

Who  is  that  man,  Obaa-San? 

OBAA-SAN 

There?     That  is  a  stranger  seeking  for  Kyu 
shu. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

He  seems  to  wish  to  speak  to  you. 

OBAA-SAN 

A  strange  man.     'Twas  he  who  seemed  to  make 
me  unlock  my  heart  to  you. 

O-SODE-SAN 

Then  shall  we  go. —  And  we'll  return,  Obaa- 
San. 

OBAA-SAN 

Grandmother ! 

O-KATSU-SAN 

We'll  laugh  no  more. 

[They    leave.     Obaa-San    turns    to    the    tree. 
The  Gaki  enters,  strangely  agitated. 
THE    GAKI 

Obaa-San,   for  so  they  called  you,  tell  me  — 
did  you  say  you'd  go  to  the  lowest  hells  if  you 
might  know  the  touch  of  your  own  child? 
OBAA-SAN 

Forever  —  could  I  but  fill  this  emptiness  in  my 
mother-heart. 

THE   GAKI 

Would  you  really  pay? 
19 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

OBAA-SAN 

Yes,  yes.  But  why  do  you  ask?  —  Who  are 
you? 

THE    GAKI 

I  am  a  stranger  bound  for  Kyushu. 

OBAA-SAN 

Why  do  you,  too,  make  sport  of  me? 
THE   GAKI 

Go  you  into  your  house  and  come  not  till  I  call. 
[Obaa-San  obeys  under  a  strange  compulsion. 

THE    TREE 

Hai!     Hai!     Hai 

THE    GAKI 

You  can  not  feed  me  now.  That  cry  was  the 
wind  amongst  your  branches.  Come.  I  bid 
you  come  to  life,  to  human  form. 

THE    TREE 

I  do  not  wish  to  come. 

THE    GAKI 

I  bid  you  come ! 

\When  he  touches  the  trunk  of  the  tree,  Aoyagi 
steps  forth.  She  is  small.  Her  little  body  is 
swathed  in  brown  and  from  her  arms  hang  long 
sleeves  like  the  branches  of  the  weeping  willow. 
At  first  she  shrinks.  Then  freedom  takes  hold 
on  her  and  she  opens  her  arms  wide. 
THE  GAKI 

You  are  free. 

AOYAGI 

Free! 

THE    GAKI 

As  free  as  one  in  life.     You  are  bound  to  the 
tree  as  one  might  be  bound  to  his  body  in  a 
dream  —  but  you  may  wander  as  one  wanders 
20 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

in   a   dream  —  free   until   the   waking — then 
when  the  tree  suffers,  you  shall  suffer.     Though 
you  be  leagues   away,   you   shall  suffer. —  But 
first  you  shall  dream. —  Now  you  are  to  be  the 
daughter  of  Obaa-San. 
AOYAGI 
Oi! 

THE    GAKI 

Do  not  call  yet. —  You   are  to  wed  the  first 
young  man  who  passes  here  and  you  are  to 
follow  him. 
AOYAGI 

But  — Obaa-San? 

THE    GAKI 

She  shall  feed  me  with  her  new-made  misery. 

AOYAGI 

No  —  no  —  she  loved  me  so ! 

THE    GAKI 

She  shall  feed  me.     You  will  be  happy. 
[He  disappears. 
AOYAGI 

Free  !     And  happy ! 

[The  Gaki's  voice  is  heard  calling  Obaa-San. 

She  comes  in  and  looks  about.     At  last  her  old 

tired  eyes  see  Aoyagi.     For  a   moment  they 

face  each  other. 
AOYAGI 

Hai. 
OBAA-SAN 

A  dream! 

AOYAGI 

Mother  — 

[Obaa-San  stands  mute.     She  listens  —  yearn 
ing  for  the  word  again. 
21 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

OBAA-SAN 

Have  you  lost  your  way? 

AOYAGI 

No,  mother  — 

[Obaa-San  does  not  know  what  to  think  or  do. 
A  strange  giddiness  seizes  on  her  and  a  great 
light  fills  her  eyes. 

OBAA-SAN 

How  beautiful  the  name  !     But  I  am  only  Obaa- 
San.     Your  mother  — 
[She  shakes  her  old  head  sadly. 

AOYAGI 

Obaa-San,  my  mother. 

[Obaa-San  lays  her  hand  upon  her  heart.    Then 

she  stretches  out  her  arms. 

OBAA-SAN 

Obaa-San  —  your  mother  —  where  is  my  pain? 
And  you  —  who  are  you? 

AOYAGI 

I  am  Aoyagi,  mother. 

OBAA-SAN 

You  have  not  lost  your  way? 

AOYAGI 

I  have  but  just  found  my  way. 

OBAA-SAN 

My  pain  is  stilled.  There  is  no  emptiness.  It 
is  a  dream  —  a  dream  of  spring  and  butterflies 
—  Aoyagi ! 

[She  stretches  out  her  arms  and  silently  Aoyagi 
glides  into  them  —  as  though  they  had  always 
been  waiting  for  her. 
OBAA-SAN 

I  seem  never  to  have  known  a  time  when  you 
were  not  here. 

22 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

AOYAGI 

Oh,  mother  dear,  it  is  now  —  and  now  is  al 
ways,  if  we  will. 

OBAA-SAN 

It  seems  as  though  the  weeping  willow  tree  had 
warmed  and  shown  its  heart  to  me. 
AOYAGI 

I  am  the  Lady  of  the  Weeping  Willow  tree! 

OBAA-SAN 

I  care  not  who  or  what  you  are.     You  are  here 
—  close  to  my  heart  and  I  have  waited  always. 
I  know  I  dream  —  I  know. 
AOYAGI 

How  long  I've  tried  to  speak  to  you ! 

OBAA-SAN 

How  long  my  heart  has  yearned  for  you  I 
AOYAGI 
Mother ! 
[  The  Gaki  appears. 

THE    GAKI 

Such  happiness.  Already  she  has  forgotten  the 
coming  of  the  man. 

OBAA-SAN 

Oh,  how  I've  dreamed  of  you !  When  I  was 
very,  very  young  and  had  my  little  doll,  I 
dreamed  of  you.  I  used  to  sing  a  lullaby  and 
still  I  sing  it  in  my  'heart : 

See,  baby,  see 

The  ears  of  the  wolf  are  long; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep, 

Your  father  is  brave  and  strong. 
I  grew  into  womanhood  and  still  I  dreamed  of 
you.     And,  dreaming  still,  I  grew  old.     And 
all  the  world  it  seemed  to  me,  made  sport  of 
23 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

my  longing  and  my  loneliness.  The  people  of 
the  village  called  me  grandmother.  The  chil 
dren  echoed  the  grownups'  cry  and  ran  from 
me.  Now  —  Aoyagi  —  you  are  here.  Oh, 
the  warmth  —  the  peace.  Come  let  me  gather 
flowers  for  the  house.  Let  me  — 

AOYAGI 

Oh,  mother,  dear.     I  am  so  happy  here. 
OBAA-SAN     (suddenly     becoming     the     solicitous 
mother,  she  handles  Aoyagi  as  one  might  han 
dle  a  doll) 

Are  you  —  truly?  —  Are  you  warm?  —  You 
are  hungry ! 

AOYAGI 

No  —  I  am  just  happy. 

[She  nestles  close  to  Obaa-San.  There  is  com 
plete  contentment. 

OBAA-SAN 

I  shall  bring  you  —  a  surprise. 
[She  darts  into  the  house.     Immediately  The 
Gaki  comes  in. 
THE    GAKI 

You    seem    very    happy,    Aoyagi.     And    your 
mother  is  very  happy,  too. —  And  I  am  hungry 
now. 
AOYAGI 

You  will  not  hurt  her !  Let  me  go  back  to  the 
Weeping  Willow  Tree  — 

THE    GAKI 

That  would  kill  her  —  perhaps. 
AOYAGI 

No  —  no  —  I  should  be  near  her  then  —  al 
ways. 

24 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

THE    GAKI 

But  where  would  I   have  my  food?     Not  in 
your  heart,  not  in  hers  —  I  should  starve  and  I 
must  live. 
AOYAGI 

What  then? 

THE    GAKI 

See! 

[He  points  to  the  road.  Aoyagi  looks  in  that 
direction  as  The  Gaki  disappears.  Riki  comes 
/?'.  Occasionally  one  may  hear  a  bit  of  a  lul- 
laby  sung  in  the  old  cracked  'voice  of  Obaa-San: 

See,  baby,  see 

The  ears  of  the  wolf  are  long; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep, 

Your  father  is  brave  and  strong. 
Riki  is  a  poet,  young,  free,  romantic.     He  faces 
Aoyagi  a  little  moment  as  though  a  wonderful 
dragonfly  had  poised  above  his  reflection  in  a 
pool. 
RIKI 

You  are  she ! 

AOYAGI 

My  —  who  —  are  —  you  ? 

RIKI 

I  am  a  poet  —  I  have  sought  everywhere  for 
you. 
AOYAGI 

I  am  the  Lady  of  the  Weeping  Willow  Tree ! 
RIKI 

You  are  my  love. 
AOYAGI 

I  am  the  daughter  of  Obaa-San. 
25 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

RIKI 

I  love  you  so ! 

AOYAGI 

Yes  —  I  love  you  so !  - —  But  I  love  Obaa-San, 
my  mother  — 
RIKI 

Come  with  me. 

AOYAGI 

But  Obaa-San  — 

RIKI 

Come  with  me. 

Butterfly,  butterfly,  alight  upon  the  Willow  Tree 
And  if  you  rest  net  well,  then  fly  home  to  me. 
See !     I  make  a  little  verse  for  you. 

AOYAGI 

But  —  Obaa-San  —  is  very  old  and  very  lonely. 
RIKI 

She  is  your  mother. —  She  must  be  glad  to  let 
you  go. 

AOYAGI 

She  does  not  know  you. 

RIKI 

I  know  you. 

AOYAGI 

Yes  —  but  I  can  not  leave  Obaa-San. 
RIKI 

We  can  not  stay  with  Obaa-San. 

AOYAGI 

Can  we  not  take  her  with  us? 

RIKI 

No  —  like  the  Oshidori  —  we  can  go  only  by 
two  and  two  along  the  silent  stream  —  and  as 
Oshidori  in  silence  and  in  happiness  float  on  and 
on  and  seem  to  cleave  the  mirrored  sky  that  lies 
26 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

deep  within  the  dark  waters,  so  we  must  go,  we 
two,  just  you  and  I,  to  some  silent  place  where 
only  you  and  I  may  be  —  and  look  and  look 
until  we  see  the  thousand  years  of  love  in  each 
other's  hearts. 

AOYAGI 

Something  speaks  to  me  above  the  pity  for  poor 
Obaa-San. 

RIKI 

It  is  love. 

AOYAGI 

I  love  Obaa-San. 
RIKI 

This  is  love  beyond  love.  This  is  earth  and 
air  —  sea  and  sky. 

AOYAGI 

I  do  not  even  know  your  name. 
RIKI 

What  does  my  name  matter?  I  am  I  —  you 
are  you. 

AOYAGI 

I  love  Obaa-San,  my  mother. —  I  feel  happy  in 
her  arms;  —  I  felt  at  peace;  —  but  now  I  feel 
that  I  must  go  to  you. —  I  am  fearful  —  yet  I 
must  go. —  You  are  — 

RIKI 

I  am  Riki.  But  what  can  Riki  mean  that  al 
ready  my  eyes  have  not  said? 

AOYAGI 

I  feel  a  strange  unrest  —  that  is  happiness. 

RIKI 

Come! 
AOYAGI 

First  let  me  speak  to  Obaa-San. 
27 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

RIKI 

Look  —  out  there  —  a  mountain  gleaming  in 
the  fresh  spring  air. —  Amongst  the  trees  I 
know  a  glade  that  waits  for  you  and  me. —  A 
little  stream  comes  plashing  by  and  silver  fishes 
leap  from  pool  to  pool  —  dazzling  jewels  in 
the  leaf-broken  sunlight.  Tall  bamboo  trees 
planted  deep  in  the  father  earth  reach  up  to  the 
sky. —  And  there  the  hand  of  some  great  god 
can  reach  down  to  us  and  feed  our  happiness  — 

AOYAGI 

Riki  —  I  must  go  —  I  feel  the  strong  hand 
leading  me  —  I  feel  the  happy  pain  —  I  long 

—  I  would  stay  with  Obaa-San;  but,   Riki,   I 
must  go. —  Yon  mountain  gleaming  in  the  sun 

—  the    bamboo    trees  —  the    silver    fishes  — 
you  — 

[Obaa-San  enters  carrying  an  armful  of  wista 
ria    blossoms.     She    is    radiant.      Then  —  she 
sees  the  lovers  —  and  she  understands.      The 
blossoms  slip  from  her  arms. 
OBAA-SAN 

When  do  you  go? 

AOYAGI 

Obaa-San,  my  mother  —  something  outside  of 
me  calls  and  I  must  obey. 

OBAA-SAN 

I  understand. —  It  must  be  wonderful,  my  little 
daughter. 

AOYAGI 

Mother !  —  This  is  Riki. 

OBAA-SAN 

Riki !  —  See  that  you  bring  her  happiness. 
28 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

RIKI 

I  could  not  fail.  I  have  searched  for  her  al 
ways. 

OBAA-SAN 

We  always  search  for  someone  —  we  humans. 

—  Sometimes  we  find  —  sometimes  we  wait  al 
ways. 

AOYAGI 

Riki,  I  must  not  go.     Obaa-San  is  my  mother 

—  and  I  am  all  she  has. 
OBAA-SAN 

Yes,  Aoyagi,  you  are  all  I  have  and  that  is  why 

I  can  let  you  go.     Be  happy  — 
AOYAGI 

But  you,  my  mother. 
OBAA-SAN 

For  my  sake,  be  happy.     Some  day  I  shall  be 

Obaa-San  no  more  —  and  what  of  you  then? 

Go,  my  little  darling,  go  with  Riki. —  Some  day, 

you  will  return. 
RIKI 

We  shall  return  some  day,  Obaa-San. 

AOYAGI 
Farewell. 

[Very  simply  she  steps  into  Obaa-San's  out 
stretched  arms  and  then,  as  though  they  had 
been  forever  empty,  Obaa-San  stands  gazing 
into  space  with  her  arms  outstretched.  Aoyagi 
and  Riki  go  out. 

OBAA-SAN 

Hai!  — Hai! 

[She  lays  her  hand  upon  her  heart  and,  looking 
into  space,  turns  to  the  house.      There  is  the 
29 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

empty    tree  —  her    empty    heart!     The    Gaki 
comes  in. 
THE   GAKI 

Oi !     Obaa-San ! 
[Obaa-San  turns  mechanically. 
OBAA-SAN 

Did  you  not  find  your  way? 

THE    GAKI 

I  found  my  way. —  But  why  this  unhappiness  in 
your  eyes? 

OBAA-SAN 

I  am  very  lonely.     I  have  lived  my  lifelong 
dream  of  spring  and  butterflies  a  single  instant 
—  and  it  is  gone. 
[She  turns  to  go. 

THE   GAKI 

I  feed !     I  feed ! 

[The  voices  of  O-Sode  and  O-Katsu  are  heard 

calling  Obaa-San. 

Here  are  your  friends  again. 

[O-Sode  and  O-Katsu  come  in. 

O-SODE-SAN 

Hai !     Obaa-San,  a  little  lady  passed  and  told 
us  you  were  lonely. 

OBAA-SAN 

I  am  lonely. —  But  I  have  always  been  lonely. 

O-SODE-SAN 

What  has  happened? 

[The  Gaki,  hidden,  has  been  triumphant.     Sud 
denly  he  seems  to  shrivel  as  if  drawn  with  rage. 
OBAA-SAN 

I  waited,  oh  so  long  —  you  know. —  I  opened 
my  arms. —  My  dream  came  true. —  I  sang  my 
30 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

lullaby  —  to  my  child. —  A  lover  came ;  —  they 
have  gone. 
O-KATSU-SAN 

She  is  a-wander  in  her  mind. 

OBAA-SAN 

I   opened  my  arms   here  —  like   this. —     She 
stepped  into  them  as  though  she  had  been  there 
always  —  and  now  she  has  gone. —  In  one  short 
moment  I  lived  my  mother-life. 
O-SODE-SAN 

It  was  magic!  Come,  Obaa-San,  we'll  make 
some  prayers  to  burn. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

Some  evil  ghost. 

OBAA-SAN 

No !  No !  Some  kindly  spirit  from  the  sky- 
dome  came  to  me. —  I  have  had  one  moment  of 
happiness  complete. —  I  dreamed  and  I  have 
known.  Now  I  shall  dream  again  —  a  greater 
dream  —  a  greater  dream. 
[ The  old  women  go  into  the  house. 

THE    GAKI 

What!  I  can  not  feed!  My  Lady  of  the 
Weeping  Willow  Tree  is  gone!  Obaa-San  has 
built  a  circle  of  happiness  about  her  head. 
Hai!  I  shall  die  in  this  shape. —  I  must  feed. 
—  Perhaps  she  tries  to  trick  me. —  I  shall  lis 
ten. —  Why  does  she  not  weep  ?  —  Why  do  they 
not  wail? 

[He  starts  for  the  house.  As  he  nears  ity  the 
voice  of  Obaa-San  is  heard  crooning  the  little 
lullaby  : 

See,  baby,  see 

The  ears  of  the  wolf  are  long; 
3' 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep, 

Your  father  is  brave  and  strong. 
THE  GAKI  (defeated,  se-ems  beside  himself.  Sud 
denly  he  looks  out  and  sees  the  mountain-peak) 
I'll  find  them  in  the  bamboo  glade.  Perhaps  I 
can  make  unhappiness  there.  Riki  and  Ao- 
yagi! 


The  Curtains  Close. 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 


ACT  II 

A  Bamboo  Glade  on  the  Mountain-side. 
[The  Gaki  comes  in. 

THE    GAKI 

This  is  the  glade  on  the  mountain  side  —  the 
glade  where  Aoyagi  and  Riki  think  to  find  their 
happiness.     Here  must  I  feed  or  I  shall  die  in 
this  shape. —  Hai ! — They  come. 
[Riki  and  Aoyagi  enter. 

RIKI 

.  .  .  and  so  like  every  other  prince  who  is  a 
real  prince,  he  charged  to  the  top  of  the  hill 
before  his  men;  and  they,  following  him,  fell 
upon  the  enemy  and  victory  was  theirs. 

AOYAGI 

And  then — ? 

RIKI 

And  then  the  Princess  laid  her  hand  upon  her 
heart. 

AOYAGI 

Is  that  all? 

RIKI 

Is  that  all?     What  more  need  there  be? 

AOYAGI 

Did  they  not  wed  and  have  great  happiness? 
RIKI 

You  can  answer  that. 
AOYAGI 

I?     I  never  heard  the  story  before. 
33 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

RIKI 

One  may  always  end  a  story- — just  right. 

AOYAGI 

Not  a  weeping  willow  tree? 

RIKI 

Even  a  weeping  willow  tree  I 

AOYAGI 

How? 

RIKI 

I'll  show  you. —  Stand  right  here. —  So !  I 
stand  here. —  Now  look  at  me. 

AOYAGI 

I  am  looking. 

RIKI 

Place  your  hand  upon  your  heart. 

AOYAGI 

Ay. 

RIKI 

Now  I  am  the  Prince.  With  sword  in  hand  I 
come  to  you.  From  Kyushu  to  Koban  I've 
fought  my  way  to  you ;  —  through  forest,  marsh 
and  mountain  path  I've  striven  for  you.  Now 
I  am  here. —  Look  at  me. 

AOYAGI 

Ah! 

{With  a  cry  of  delight  she  rushes  to  his  arms. 
RIKI 

And  did  they  wed? 

AOYAGI 

Ah,  love  beyond  love. 
RIKI 

And  did  they  have  great  happiness? 

AOYAGI 

Ah! 

34 


ill 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 
ACT  III. 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

[She  nestles  close  to  him. 
RIKI 

My  little  princess!  I  did  not  come  to  you 
sword  in  hand;  I  did  not  fight  my  way  from 
Kyushu  to  Koban.  But  I  strove  for  you 
through  forest,  marsh  and  mountain  pass. — 
Within  me  throbbed  a  mighty  song  that  I  could 
not  sing.  I  saw  almost  all  the  world,  it  seems, 
and  once  I  heard  a  voice  that  seemed  to  call  to 
me  alone.  It  was  at  the  ferry  of  Ishiyama.  I 
followed  the  sound  —  and  there  she  stood  all 
aglow  in  the  morning  sunlight.  But  when  I 
saw,  the  song  still  throbbed  within  my  heart  and 
I  could  not  sing  to  her. —  Someone  else  called  to 
me— "Hai!  Hai!  Hai !  " 

AOYAGI 

And  what  of  her  —  the  vision  at  the  ferry  of 
Ishiyama? 
RIKI 

For  all  I  know  she  may  still  be  standing  there 
in  the  morning  sunlight  all  aglow. —  I  have 
found  you ! 

AOYAGI 

And  was  she  —  fair? 

RIKI 

Ay  —  how  can  I  say?  Now  all  the  world  is 
fair  because  I  see  only  you  in  earth  and  sky  and 
everything. 

AOYAGI 

She  was  aglow  in  the  morning  sun. 
RIKI 

How  can  I  say?     I  heard  her  voice;  —  a  song 
was  in  my  heart  —  a  song  for  you. —  I  saw  her 
—  the  song  staid  locked  in  my  heart  for  you. 
35 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

AOYAGI 

Riki  —  Riki  — 

RIKI 

A  dream  that's  true. 
AOYAGI 

I  do  not  understand  it  all. —  Obaa-San  —  you 
—  this  happiness. —  I  have  known  happiness, 
but  not  like  this. —  When  I  was  in  the  weeping 
willow  tree  —  sometimes  I  was  happy  and 
sometimes  I  was  hurt. —  Oh,  Riki,  Riki,  this 
glade  is  like  the  weeping  willow  tree !  When 
ever  the  soft  air  sways  the  leaves,  I  feel  the 
same  sweet  joy  as  when  the  little  breezes  played 
amongst  my  branches.  The  rain  —  oh,  the 
gentle  little  rain  that  cooled  me  in  the  hot  sum 
mer —  the  drops  that  danced  from  leaf  to  leaf 
and  felt  like  smiles  upon  my  face.  Tears ! 
The  rain  is  not  like  tears,  Riki. 

RIKI 

The  dew  is  tears,  perhaps. 
AOYAGI 

The  dew!  It  came  to  me  like  a  cool  veil  that 
the  morning  sun  would  lift  and  little  breezes 
bear  away.  Then  sometimes  —  the  voice,  the 
loneliness  of  Obaa-San. 

RIKI 

Look  where  her  home  lies.  Far  down  there 
beyond  that  stream,  see  —  there  is  Kyushu. 

AOYAGI 

Oh,  Riki,  my  Riki,  my  august  lord;  why,  why 
can  I  stay  here  in  happiness  with  you  when  I 
know  that  Obaa-San  is  miserable  and  alone? 
RIKI 

I  can  not  say?     I  only  know  that  we  are  here  — 

36 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

you  and  I  —  and  we  are  happy.  Two  make  a 
world,  Aoyagi.  Why?  How?  I  do  not 
know. 

AOYAGI 

Can  we  not  send  a  message  to  Obaa-San? 

RIKI 

Yes.      I  shall  go  down  the  mountain  to  the  road 
and  tell  some  passer-by. 
AOYAGI 
And  I? 

RIKI 

Sit  here  and  rest  —  and  watch  the  silver  stream 
at  Kyushu. 

AOYAGI 

I  shall  wait  —  I  shall  wait. 
RIKI 

Sayonara. 
AOYAGI 

Sayonara. —  Sayonara,  my  august  lord. 
[Riki  goes  out.     Aoyagi,  left  alone,  feels  the 
air  in  the  old  way.     She  sways  slightly  in  the 
breeze,  then  flutters  toward  the  steps. 
Oh,  Kyushu  !     The  silver  stream  at  Kyushu ! 
[She  evidently  sees  the  place  where  Obaa-San 
lives.     Her  eyes  dim  a  bit  and  slowly  she  hums 
the  old  lullaby: 

See,  baby,  see, 

The  ears  of  the  wolf  are  long; 

Sleep,  baby,  sleep, 

Thy  father  is  brave  and  strong. 
Poor  Obaa-San ! 
[The  Gaki  appears. 

THE    GAKI 

I  have  lost  my  way. 

37 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

[Aoyagi  turns  quickly,  questioning  him  almost 
fearfully  with  her  eyes.  There  is  something  of 
the  Aoyagi  of  the  time  when  The  Gaki  bade  her 
leave  Obaa-San. 

AOYAGI 

Whither  are  you  bound? 

THE    GAKI 

I  am  a  stranger  bound  for  Kyushu. 

AOYAGI 

There   is    Kyushu.      (She   indicates   the  silver 

stream] 
THE    GAKI 

I  am  told  there  is  a  ferry  on  the  way  to  Kyushu. 

AOYAGI 

Yes, —  at  Ishiyama. 

THE    GAKI 

At  —  Ishiyama. 

AOYAGI 

Why  do  you  speak  so? 
THE    GAKI 

I  merely  echoed  your  own  words. 

AOYAGI 

I  did  not  say  them  so  terribly. 
THE    GAKI 

What  is  in  your  heart  came  into  your  voice, 
perhaps. 

AOYAGI 

There  is  the  way  to  Kyushu. 

THE    GAKI 

Down  that  path? 

AOYAGI 

Yes.     Did  you  not  meet  Riki? 

THE    GAKI 

Riki? 

38 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

AOYAGI 

Yes,  my  august  lord. 

THE    GAKI 

I  passed  no  one  —  except  —  a  tall  woman  who 
was  climbing  slowly  and  singing  a  wonderful 
song  —  which  I  had  heard  once  near  the  ferry 
at  Ishiyama. 
AOYAGI 

But  Riki  just  left  me  here.     You  must  have 
passed  him  on  the  way. 
THE    GAKI 

The  by-paths  are  many  and  the  trysting  places 
are  secret  —  like  this. 

AOYAGI 

Riki  would  take  no  by-path.     My  august  lord 
needs  no  trysting  place  save  this. 

THE    GAKI 

I  do  not  know.     I  saw  no  Riki. 
AOYAGI 

My  lord  needs  no  trysting  place.     I  am  here. 
He  knows  I  am  here  —  waiting. 
[The  Gaki  looks  at  her. 
THE    GAKI 

Riki? 

AOYAGI 

He  knows  I  am  waiting  — 

THE    GAKI 

Riki  ?  —  Oh,    yes    the    name  —  I    heard    it  — 

once  —  at  the  ferry  at  Ishiyama.     He  has  been 

there. 
AOYAGI 

Yes. 

THE    GAKI 

A  poet? 

39 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

AOYAGI 

Yes. 

THE    GAKI 

He  writes  wonderful  love-songs  —  they  say. 

AOYAGI 

They? 

THE    GAKI 

Yes, —  the  people  at  Ishiyama.     I  heard  one. — 

It  goes  —  let  me  see : 

"  Butterfly,   butterfly,    alight   upon   the   willow 

tree—" 

AOYAGI 

He  did  not  speak  that  at  Ishiyama.  He  made 
that  for  me. 

THE    GAKI 

I  heard  it,  strange  to  say,  at  Ishiyama.  Per 
haps  they  brought  it  from  —  where  did  you 
say? 

AOYAGI 

He  made  that  for  me  only  yesterday. 

THE    GAKI 

And    I    heard    it  —  yesterday  —  at    Ishiyama. 
There    the    wonderful    woman    was    singing. 
(She  looks  at  him]      The  one  I  passed  just  now. 
AOYAGI 

That  is  a  mistake. —  You  are  wrong. —  I  know 
my  —  Ah!  what  is  it  here  —  that  hurts  me, 
tears  me,  seems  to  choke  me!  Riki !  —  I  am 
all  in  all  to  him  —  he  told  me  that. —  He  can 
not  make  poems  for  another. 

THE    GAKI 

I  should  not  have  told  anything. —  Forgive  me. 
—  I  did  not  know. —  To  speak  truth  is  deep  in 
40 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

my  heart. —  I  have  no  gracious  subtleties. —  I 
am  sorry  — 
AOYAGI 

In  the  valley  there  is  a  mist.     I  can  no  longer 
see  the   silver  stream   at  Kyushu. —  Who   are 
you  ?  —  I  am  afraid !  —  Riki  —  Riki  — 
[There  is  no  answer. 

THE    GAKI 

He  does  not  seem  to  hear. —  I  shall  go  to  meet 
him.     He  went  this, way,  you  say? 
AOYAGI 

Yes. —  There  is  a  mist  in  fhe  valley  and  I  can 
not  see  the  silver  stream  at  Kyushu  — 
[She  does  not  see   The  Gaki  who  goes  in  the 
direction  opposite  to  the  one  Aoyagi  has  indi 
cated. 

Oh,  the  little  day  —  the  little   day  —  of  love 
beyond  love. —  Riki  —  my  mother,  Obaa-San. 

—  Yesterday  the  mountain-top  gleamed  like  the 
topmost  heaven  in  the  spring  sunlight.     Today 

—  the  valley  dies  in  mist  and  the  mountain-top 
is  lost  in  the  sky. 

RIKI  (coming  in  singing) 
Hai!     Hai!     Hai! 

RIKI 

Aoyagi ! 

AOYAGI 

I  must  go  back  to  Obaa-San,  my  mother. 
RIKI 

What  has  happened,  Aoyagi  ? 
AOYAGI 

We  came  up  the  mountain  path  side  by  side, 

Riki.     Without  question  I  gave  myself  to  you. 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 


RIKI 

Aoyagi ! 

AOYAGI 

I  gave  my  love  —  my  love  beyond  love.  I  be 
lieved. 

RIKI 

Why  not  believe? 
AOYAGI 

Your  first  words  were — "  You  are  she!"     I 

did  not  question.     And  now  — 
RIKI 

Oh,  my  little  love,  was  I  gone  too  long? 
AOYAGI 

My  love  knows  no  time,  Riki. —  You  were  gone 
—  how  can  I  say? — ages. 
RIKI 

It  was  ages,  too,  to  me,  Aoyagi. 
AOYAGI  (softening] 

I  watched  the  silver  stream  at  Kyushu  —  and  I 
waited. 

RIKI 

What,  are  those  tears? 

AOYAGI 

Nothing,  Riki  —  but  I  feel  so  far  away  —  from 
Obaa-San. 

RIKI 

She  can  bridge  the  distance  with  her  heart.  A 
mother  can  always  bridge  all  distance  with  her 
heart. 

AOYAGI 

Hai! 

RIKI 

Our  happiness  is  all  she  wants. 
42 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

AOYAGI 

Our  happiness —  (bitterly) 
RIKI      (He    goes    to    her.     She    moves    away) 

Why  — 

AOYAGI 

The  silver  fishes  — 

RIKI 

What  has  happened,  Aoyagi? 

AOYAGI 

Did  you  send  the  message  to  Obaa-San? 
RIKI 
Yes. 

AOYAGI 

Did  you  go  down  the  path? 
RIKI 
Yes. 

AOYAGI 

Did  you  pass  a  stranger  on  the  way? 
RIKI 

No. 

AOYAGI 

A  stranger  just  came  by. —  He  came  up  the 
mountain  path. 

RIKI 

I  crossed  the  stream. 

AOYAGI     (She  takes  a  deep  breath) 
You  crossed  the  stream. 

RIKI 

Aoyagi  —  little  sweetheart  —  I  cannot  under 
stand. — What  do  you  mean? 

AOYAGI 

Oh,  Riki,  Riki,  I  am  so  alone.     Tell  me  what 
—  why  —  why  — 

43 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 


RIKI 

Aoyagi,  was  I  gone  too  long?     Has  some  de 
mon  come  to  you? 

AOYAGI 

No  demon  came.     You  were  gone  too  long. 

RIKI 

I  went  down  the  path  and  crossed  the  stream  to 
take  a  shorter  way.     I  met  a  stranger  — 

AOYAGI 
Singing? 

RIKI 

Yes  —  I  think  she  was  singing. 

AOYAGI 

She  was  singing. 
RIKI 

What  do  you  mean,  Aoyagi  ? 
AOYAGI 

Who  was  she? 

RIKI 

I  do  not  know. —  She  said  she  would  pass  Ishi- 
yama. 

AOYAGI 

Where  did  you  see  her? 
RIKI 

Beyond  the  stream  —  in  a  little  glade. 
AOYAGI 

Did  she  sing  your  song? 
RIKI 

My  song?     No. 
AOYAGI 

Did  she  know  your  songs? 
RIKI 

Aoyagi!     What  do  you  want  to  know? 
44 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

AOYAGI 

Did  she  know  your  song  to  me  — 

"  Butterfly,   butterfly,    alight   upon   the   willow 

tree"? 

RIKI 

Perhaps. —  I  made   that  to  you  years  ago  — 

when  you  were  a  dream  in  my  heart. 
AOYAGI 

At  Ishiyama? 
RIKI 

Perhaps. 

AOYAGI 

Hai !  —  Obaa-San,     my     mother!  —  Oh,     my 

heart  —  my  heart  — 
RIKI 

Aoyagi  —  what  have   I   done?     Let  me   com 
fort  you ! 

[He  goes  to  her. 
AOYAGI 

You  leave  me  nothing  in  all  the  world. 
RIKI 

I  give  you  all  my  world. 
AOYAGI 

Hai!     Hai!     Hai! 

RIKI 

Let  me  go  and  call  the  lady  bound  for  Ishi 
yama. 

AOYAGI 

Riki !  —  ah ! 

RIKI 

Little  Aoyagi  —  my  love  —  she  will  be  tender 
with  you. —  And   when   your   tears   are   gone, 
she'll  bear  your  message  on  to  Obaa-San. 
45 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

[He  goes  to  her,  but  she  draws  away.     For  a 
moment  he  is  uncertain  what  to  do;  —  then  — 
he  speaks. 
I'll  bring  her  back  to  you. 

AOYAGI 

Riki !  —  No!  —  We  came  up  the  mountain- 
path  together  —  side  by  side. —  We  —  but 
now,  Riki,  we  go  two  ways. —  I  to  Obaa-San 
—  you  to  — 

RIKI 

What  do  you  mean? 

AOYAGI 

Go   sing  your  songs  at  Ishiyama !     Go  make 

your  poems  to  the  butterfly. —  I  — 
RIKI 

I  have  made  songs  only  for  you. 
AOYAGI 

But  the  songs  for  me  are  on  every  tongue. 
RIKI 

Ay —  I  am  proud  of  that. 
AOYAGI 

The  lady  at  the  ferry  at  Ishiyama  — 
RIKI 

She  learned  the  song  to  you ! 

AOYAGI 

Ah! 

[Aoyagi  rushes  upon  him  and  before  she  real 
izes  what  she  is  doing,  she  strikes  him.     He 
stands  petrified  a  moment,  then  faces  her  very 
calmly. 
RIKI 

I  shall  find  the  stranger-woman  and  send  her  to 
you. —  I  can  no  longer  help  you. 
46 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

AOYAGI 

You  can  no  longer  help. —  Oh  —  life  —  oh, 
love  —  this  too  short  day  — 

RIKI 

I  shall  stay  near  at  hand  until  you  return  to 
Obaa-San. 
AOYAGI 

I  shall  find  the  path  alone. 

RIKI 

I'll  send  the  stranger-woman  to  you. 
[Riki  goes  out. 

AOYAGI 

Hai!  Hai!  Hai !  I  watched  the  sunrise 
only  yesterday  and  I  trembled  with  the  wonder 
of  the  dew-cooled  dawn.  Life  seemed  all  peace 
and  —  today  —  I  have  known  a  mother's  love 
and  my  mother. —  I  have  known  a  lover's  touch 
—  love  beyond  love. —  I  am  waking  from  a 
dream.  The  Gaki  said  I'd  waken  —  I'd  be  as 
free  as  one  in  life.  Oh,  what  is  this  thing  they 
call  life?  No  happiness  complete  —  a  vision 
of  a  mountain  top  —  a  climbing  to  the  goal  —  a 
bamboo  glade  —  oh,  the  mist  at  Kyushu. — 
When  I  go  back  to  Obaa-San  —  I  shall  love  her 
so  —  but  oh,  the  memory  of  Riki  —  the  moun 
tain  gleaming  in  the  sun  — 
[She  starts  sadly  from  the  path.  The  Gaki 
enters. 
THE  GAKI 

Lady,  I  am  here  again.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
I  must  return  to  you.  Something  seemed  to 
call.  (Aoyagi  almost  collapses)  I  feed!  I 
feed! 

47 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

AOYAGI 

I  can  not  go ! 

THE    GAKI 

You  seem  to  suffer. 
AOYAGI 

Oh  —  I  have  lost  my  way  in  life  — 
THE    GAKI 

Lost  your  way  in  life?     Let  me  help  you. 
AOYAGI 

I  have  stood  on  the  mountain  side  and  I  have 

seen  the  green  valleys  far  below. 

THE    GAKI 

Talk  to  me  —  as  you   would   to  yourself. — I 

hear  but  I  shall  not  speak  what  I  hear. 
AOYAGI 

Riki  —  no,    I   can  not  speak  even  to  myself. 

Deep  in  me  there  is  a  hurt. —  I  can  not  tell  — 
THE   GAKI 

A  woman  gives  all;  —  the  man  forgets. 
AOYAGI 

But  to  Riki  —  he  knows  —  I  brought  him  my 

full  belief  —  my  all-in-all. 
THE   GAKI 

Your  perfect  faith. 
AOYAGI 

Ay,  my  perfect  faith. —  He  spoke  to  me  and 

then  I  bowed  to  my  august  lord. —  I  followed 

him  without  question. —  And  he  forgets  so  soon. 
THE    GAKI 

Are  you  sure  he  has  forgotten? 

AOYAGI 

You  know  —  you  saw  the  lady  from  Ishiyama. 

THE    GAKI 

True. —  I  saw  her. 

48 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

AOYAGI 

You  did  not  meet  him  on  the  path. 

THE    GAKI 

True. —  I  did  not  meet  him  on  the  path. 
AOYAGI 

He  crossed  the  stream. 

THE    GAKI 

Perhaps  to  shorten  the  way. 
AOYAGI 

He  met  her  in  a  little  glade. —  Hai! 
THE    GAKI 

What  shall  you  do  ? 

AOYAGI 

I'll  go  my  way.     I'll  return  to  Obaa-San. 

THE    GAKI 

I'll  guide  you  down  the  mountain  side. —  Come, 
we'll   take   the  shorter  way  —  the  by-paths  - 
across  the  stream  —  through  the  little  glade  - 
AOYAGI   (She  looks  about  once  more  at  the  scene 
of  her  happiness) 
Hai! 

THE    GAKI 

Come ! 

AOYAGI 

No,  let  us  go  down  the  path. —  I  want  to  see  my 
footprints  —  side  by  side  with  his. 

THE    GAKI 

Perhaps  they're  being  crushed  under  the  feet  of 
the  lady  from  Ishiyama  ! 

[Aoyagi  starts  a  moment  as  though  to  fly  along 
the  path  before  the  lady  comes. —  She  sways 
slowly  —  and  then  falls  in  a  pitiful  little  heap. 
—  The  Gaki  takes  her  in  his  arms  and,  utterly 
triumphant,  starts  up  the  mountain-side. 
49 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

We'll  go  up  —  up  —  sweet  Aoyagi,  to  the 
snow  peak  —  gleaming  in  the  sun. —  You'll  find 
the  mountain-top  —  not  lost  in  the  sky. —  Your 
perfect  faith !  —  Oh,  you  silly  human  —  oh,  fu 
tile  love  —  climb,  Aoyagi  —  climb  without 
love. —  But  first  we'll  make  footprints  for  the 
lover's  eyes. —  Blindness  will  lead  him  to  the 
mists  at  Kyushu. —  Jealousy  will  lead  you  to 
the  lonely  stars. 

[He  holds  Aoyagi  so  that  her  feet  touch  the 
ground — toward  the  downward  path.  Then 
with  a  wild  laugh,  he  turns  toward  the  mountain 
top.  As  the  laughter  dies,  the  voice  of  Riki  is 
heard  calling 

Aoyagi !     Aoyagi !   .  .  .  Oi ! 
The  laugh  of  The  Gaki  is  heard  once  more  very 
far  away  —  as  he  ascends  the  mountain  with  his 
burden. 
RIKI 

Aoyagi !  —  Aoyagi ! 

[Riki  comes  running  in.     Presently  he  sees  the 
footprints. 
Oi !  —  Aoyagi ! 
[He  runs  down  the  path. 
Aoyagi !  —  Aoyagi ! 

[Far,  very  far  away  The  Gaki's  laugh  is  heard. 
RIKI 

Aoyagi !  —  Aoyagi ! 
[Night  has  fallen  slowly. 
Aoyagi !  —  Aoyagi ! 

The  Curtains  Close. 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 


ACT  III 

Before  the  House  of  Obaa-San 

[It  is  moonlight.     As  the  curtain  opens,  Obaa- 
San  is  heard  singing  the  lullaby;  from  the  dis 
tance  the  'voice  of  Riki  calls. 
RIKI 

Aoyagi !  —  Aoyagi !  —  Aoyagi !  —  Aoyagi ! 

Oi! 

[Obaa-San  appears  in  the  doorway. 

Aoyagi ! 
OBAA-SAN      (She  goes  toward  the  voice) 

Oi! 

[Riki  enters. 
RIKI 

Obaa-San!     Where  is  Aoyagi? 
OBAA-SAN 

Where  is  Aoyagi? 

RIKI 

Is  she  not  here? 

OBAA-SAN 

She  is  not  here.     Where  —  Riki ! 

RIKI 

I  left  her  in  the  bamboo  glade  —  and  when  I 
returned  she  was  gone.  Her  footprints  pointed 
toward  the  path  —  and  then  were  lost. 

OBAA-SAN 

Why  did  you  leave  her? 

RIKI 

I  left  her  because  she  —  I  left  her. 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

OBAA-SAN 

I  do  not  know,  Riki,  what  has  come  to  pass  — 
but  this  I  know  —  I  am  waiting  for  her. —  I  am 
waiting  for  her.  Go  seek  for  her  —  and  bring 
her  back  to  me. 

RIKI 

I  shall  search  for  her. —  Obaa-San,  she  — 

OBAA-SAN 

I  care  not  what  she  did.  I  am  waiting  here  for 
her. 

[Riki  looks  at  Obaa-San  a  moment  and  then  un 
derstands. 

RIKI 

Aoyagi ! 

[He  goes  out.     Obaa-San  turns  to  the  empty 

house  —  the  empty  willow  tree. 
OBAA-SAN 

She  will  come  back  to  me. 

[She  goes  into  the  house.      The  Gaki  enters. 
THE    GAKI 

Foolish  Riki !    He  searches  in  the  valley.    Mad 

Aoyagi !     Alone  with  the  lonely  stars !  —  Oh, 

wondrous  misery  that  makes  itself. 

[He  sees  Obaa-San.    She  enters  from  the  house. 

Good-morning,  Obaa-San,  my  friend. 
OBAA-SAN 

Good-morning,  traveller. 

THE    GAKI 

Why  do  you  rise  before  the  dawn? 

OBAA-SAN 

I  could  not  rest. —  Why  are  you  not  at  Kyushu? 
THE    GAKI 

There  is  a  mist  at  Kyushu  —  and  I  feared  to 
lose  my  way. 

52 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

OBAA-SAN 

Did  you  pass  a  little  lady  —  Aoyagi,  by  name 
—  alone  — 

THE    GAKI 

It  seems  —  I  met  a  little  lady. —  She  was  not 
happy. —  That  one? 
OBAA-SAN 
Where? 

THE    GAKI 

J  am  a  stranger  here  —  I  cannot  say.     Over 
there  —  or  over  there. 
OBAA-SAN 

She  will  come  to  me,  perhaps. 

THE    GAKI 

Do  you  know  her? 

OBAA-SAN 

She  is  my  daughter, —  Aoyagi. 
THE    GAKI 

Do  you  not  fear  for  her? 

OBAA-SAN 

Perhaps. —  She  will  be  here  soon. —  Riki  has 
gone  for  her. 

THE    GAKI 

She  must  know  the  way. 

[  The  voices  of  O-Sode  and  O-Katsu  are  heard. 
This  has  been  a  restless  night  for  age.  (He 
disappears.  O-Sode-San  and  O-Katsu-San  en 
ter) 

OBAA-SAN 

Good-morning,  O-Sode-San.  Good-morning, 
O-Katsu-San. —  The  lily  hands  of  sleep  have 
passed  you  by. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

A  strange  unrest  has  seized  upon  me.     I  think 
53 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

—  and  think  of  my  little  one.  She  is  glorious 
in  my  heart,  and  words  with  wings  seem  to 
flash  before  my  eyes  like  fireflies  in  the  dark 
ness. 

O-SODE-SAN 

I,  too,  have  lived  in  words. 

O-KATSU-SAN 

Obaa-San,  is  it  not  wonderful  to  put  a  joy  or 
pain  in  words? 
OBAA-SAN 

Ah,  yes  —  if  there  is  anyone  to  hear  them. 
All  my  long,  long  years  before  Aoyagi  came  to 
me,  my  heart  sang,  and  words  freighted  with 
my  dreams  and  my  love  would  come  to  me  — 
here;  and  they  would  die  because  they  found  no 
ear  attuned  to  them. —  Tell  me  what  you 
thought,  O-Sode-San. 

O-SODE-SAN 

The  moon  in  calm  restlessness 
Shows    the    water    grasses    of    the    River    of 
Heaven, 

Swaying  in  the  cool  spring  air  — 
I  know  the  time  to  meet  my  lover 
Is  not  too  far  away. 
OBAA-SAN 

Every  one  has  a  poem  in  his  heart,  I  believe. — 
What  was  your  poem,  O-Katsu? 

O-KATSU-SAN 

Oh,  messenger  of  the  other  world, 
My  little  one  is  young; 
She  can  not  find  her  way  — 
Do  you  kindly  take  my  little  one 
Upon  your  warm,  broad  back 
Along  the  twilight  path. 
54 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

O-SODE-SAN 

And  you,  Obaa-San,  —  was  it  words  that  kept 
sleep  from  your  eyes? 

OBAA-SAN 

Ay,  bitter  dream-words.  And  for  the  bitter 
ness  I  am  paying  dearly. —  Over  and  over  the 
words  came  to  me: 

Here  lies  my  daughter's  sleeping  body 
On  the  mat  beside  me. 
But  her  soul  is  far  away 
Asleep  in  her  lover's  arms  — 
And  I,  her  white-haired  mother, 
Hold  only  an  empty  shell. 

Oh,  I  am  ashamed  —  ashamed. —  And  just  now 
Riki  came  to  me  —  and  told  me  he  could  not 
find  Aoyagi. 

O-KATSU-SAN  AND  O-SODE-SAN 

Hai! 

O-SODE-SAN 

Can  we  not  search  for  her? 

OBAA-SAN 

I  am  waiting  here. —  She  may  find  her  way 
back. —  I  would  not  have  her  come  to  an  empty 
house. —  Come  —  let's  go  within  —  and  dream 
that  yours  and  yours  and  mine  are  on  their  way 
to  us. 

[The  old  women  go  into  the  house.      There  is 
just  a  moment's  silence  —  then: 
AOYAGI 

Hai!     Hai!     Hai! 

[Aoyagi,  utterly  forlorn,  enters.     She  looks  at 
the  house,  turns  and  sees  the  mountains,  covers 
55 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

her  eyes,  and  drags  herself  wearily  to  the  willow 
tree.  She  moans  as  though  winter  had  fallen 
upon  the  world  and  were  taunting  her.  The 
Gaki  enters. 

THE    GAKI 

So  you  have  found  your  way  —  in  life. 

AOYAGI 

Oh,  let  me  go  back  to  my  tree  ! 

THE    GAKI 

No,  little  Aoyagi  —  you  would  be  happy  then. 
AOYAGI 

Let  me  die! 

THE    GAKI 

One  can  not  die. 

AOYAGI 

Hai! 

THE    GAKI 

Where  have  you  been? 

AOYAGI 

So  far  —  so  far!  —  I  am  weary. —  When  I 
awoke,  I  was  on  the  mountain-top  —  alone. 

THE    GAKI 

Were  there  no  stars? 
AOYAGI 

Oh  —  the  stars,  the  lonely,  lonely  stars!  I 
tried  to  touch  them  —  they  seemed  so  near. —  I 
found  the  path  —  the  glade  —  our  footprints 
-  strange  people  —  I  am  here.  Let  me  back ! 
Let  me  back ! 

THE    GAKI 

And  what  of  Riki? 

AOYAGI 

He  does  not  care. 

56 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

THE    GAKI 

And  what  of  Obaa-San? 

AOYAGI 

What  can  I  give  to  Obaa-San  now  —  but  mis 
ery?     Am  I  never  to  be  free? 

THE    GAKI 

What  would  you  do  if  you  were  free  —  climb 
to  the  mountain  top  to  see  the  lonely  stars? 
AOYAGI 

Hai !  —  Riki !  —  Obaa-San  ! 

[Obaa-San  enters.      The  Gaki  disappears. 

OBAA-SAN 

Was  my  name  spoken  in  the  dawn? 
AOYAGI 

Mother ! 

{With  a  cry  of  joy,  Obaa-San  enfolds  Aoyagi 

in  her  arms. 

OBAA-SAN 

Nadeshiko!      My  little  girl! 
AOYAGI 

Where  is  Riki? 

OBAA-SAN 

He  has  gone  to  search  for  you. 
AOYAGI 

Was  he  alone? 

OBAA-SAN 

Alone? 

AOYAGI 

Yes.     Was  there  no  woman  with  him  —  a  lady 
from  Ishiyama? 

OBAA-SAN 

A  lady  from  — 
AOYAGI 

Yes  —  tall  —  fair  —  singing  — 

57 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

OBAA-SAN 

He  was  alone.  A  lady  from  Ishiyama  —  (A o- 
yagi  shudders  with  dread)  brought  me  a  mes 
sage  in  the  early  night  — 

AOYAGI 

It  was  she  —  young? 

OBAA-SAN 

No  —  old. 

AOYAGI 

Had  she  seen  Riki? 

OBAA-SAN 

Yes.     On  the  mountain-side  — 

AOYAGI 

The  stranger  said  she  was  young  and  fair. 

OBAA-SAN 

Perhaps  the  stranger  did  not  see  with  honest 
eyes. 
AOYAGI 

He  would  not  lie. 

OBAA-SAN 

Sometimes  the  eyes  and  the  ears  lie. 

AOYAGI 

Ah! 

OBAA-SAN 

And  if  she  had  been  young  and  fair? 
AOYAGI 

Riki  met  her  in  a  glade. 

OBAA-SAN 

Did  you  see  them  meet? 

AOYAGI 

No  —  she  was  singing. 

OBAA-SAN 

A  happy  song,  perhaps. 

58 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

AOYAGI 

She  sang  the  song  he  made  to  me. 

OBAA-SAN 

How  do  you  know? 

AOYAGI 

Riki  said  she  knew  his  song  to  me. 

OBAA-SAN 

Ah,  that  is  beautiful,  that  she  should  love  his 
song  to  you. 
AOYAGI 

He  — 

OBAA-SAN 

My  little  darling,  I  do  not  know  what  really 
happened;  but  this  I  know,  you  did  not  speak 
fairly  to  Riki  or  Riki  did  not  speak  fairly  to 
you.  Almost  every  unhappiness  comes  because 
we  speak  too  much  of  our  pride  and  speak  too 
little  of  our  hearts. 

AOYAGI 

I  asked  him  if  he  saw  her. 

OBAA-SAN 

Why? 

AOYAGI 

A  stranger  told  me  • — 

OBAA-SAN 

Was  it  the  stranger  you  believed  before  Riki 
could  defend  himself? 

AOYAGI 

But,  mother,  I  gave  my  all  in  all  to  Riki.     He 

does  not  care. 
OBAA-SAN 

Do  you  know? 
AOYAGI 

I  asked  Riki  if  they  met? 
59 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

OBAA-SAN 

Did  he  tell  you  ? 

AOYAGI 

He  seemed  to  be  proud  to  tell. 

OBAA-SAN 

Then  he  was  unashamed  to  tell  — 

AOYAGI 

I  asked  him  questions. 

OBAA-SAN 

But  did  you  ask  him  the  great  question  in  your 
heart? 
AOYAGI 
Oh  — 

OBAA-SAN 

Did  you  say,  u  Riki,  my  love,  you  are  in  all  my 
heart.     Am  I  in  all  yours?  " 
AOYAGI 

He  told  me  that. 

OBAA-SAN 

And  did  you  believe? 

AOYAGI 

Above  all  the  world ! 

OBAA-SAN 

Then  why  doubt  him  later? 
AOYAGI 

The  lady  from  Ishiyama  passed  by. 

OBAA-SAN 

My  child,  a  lady  bound  for  Ishiyama  passed 
by!  Had  she  been  singing  all  the  love-songs 
of  all  the  worlds;  had  she  been  fairer  than  the 
lotus-flower,  why  should  you  have  doubted 
Riki? 

AOYAGI 

A  stranger  — 

60 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 


OBAA-SAN 

A  stranger!  —  a  stranger!  —  Oh,  why  —  why 

—  why  do  the  eyes  of  love  grow  blind  because 
a  stranger  speaks?     You,  Aoyagi,  did  not  see 
the   lady  bound   for   Ishiyama.      You   did  not 
hear  her  song  —  and  yet  upon  the  ears  and  eyes 
of  a  stranger  you  would  shatter  your  love. —  I 
saw  the  lady. —  She  was  singing. —  She  was  not 
fair. —  If  she  had  been  —  Oh,  my  little  child 

—  Riki  is  Riki,  your  august  lord,  the  lord  of 
your  life.     When  he  comes  back,  go  to  him  and 
speak  from  your  heart. 

AOYAGI 

What  shall  I  say? 

OBAA-SAN 

I  need  not  tell  your  heart. —  It  is  only  your  head 

that  can  not  learn  to  speak  unprompted. —  Do 

you  love  Riki? 
AOYAGI 

Ay  —  so  dearly! 

[The  voice  of  Riki  is  heard. 
RIKI 

Aoyagi ! 
AOYAGI 

He  is  coming! 

[Obaa-San,  unnoticed,  goes  into  the  house. 

Riki  enters. 

RIKI 

Aoyagi ! 

\When  he  sees  she  is  safe,  he  drops  suddenly. 
She  goes  to  him. 
AOYAGI 

Riki,  my  august  lord,   listen   to  my  heart. — 
61 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

Forget  my  anger. —  Tell  me  once  again  that 
you  love  me. —  I'll  believe. 

RIKI 

You  know  —  I  have  always  loved  you. —  When 
you  were  a  song  in  my  heart,  I  loved  you  so ! 
And  now  — 

AOYAGI 

Oh,  Riki,  can  we  ever  forget  the  blow  I  struck? 

RIKI 

That  was  yesterday  —  see,  this  is  today:  the 
dawn  has  spread  across  the  sky.  What  shall 
we  do?  Look  back  upon  the  bitterness  of  yes 
terday,  or  try  to  see  the  fears  of  tomorrow,  or 
live  in  the  gladness  of  today? 
AOYAGI 

The  Gaki  of  Kokoru  is  here  at  the  tree.  He 
will  not  let  us  live  in  happiness.  He  let  me  go 
with  you  because  he  meant  to  feed  upon  the 
misery  of  poor  Obaa-San. 

RIKI 

He  has  not  come  upon  us  yet.  We  are  strug 
gling  against  tomorrow.  This  is  the  dawning 
of  today. 

AOYAGI 

Then  shall  we  live  —  today. 

[Obaa-San  enters  from  the  house. 
OBAA-SAN 

Come,  Aoyagi;  come,  Riki.     We  have  found 

happiness  at  our  door.     Within  there  is  rice 

and  tea.      Come. 

[  They  go  into  the  house.      The  Gaki  enters. 
THE    GAKI 

There  is  love !  —  Now  what  shall  I  do  for  mis 
ery?     Old    Obaa-San    remembers    happiness. 
62 


W 
ffi 

H 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

She  has  taught  O-Katsu  and  O-Sode  to  remem 
ber  happiness.  The  lovers  are  reunited;  — 
now  they  understand. —  And  I  —  I,  ah,  I  must 
die  in  this  dread  shape  and  stay  in  this  hell 
through  all  the  eternities  unless  I  bring  new 
misery  to  them.  What  can  I  do?  (He  turns 
to  see  the  tree]  Ah —  I  shall  kill  the  tree  — 
slowly  —  slowly  —  and  I'll  feed  upon  them  all. 
Aoyagi  is  bound  to  the  tree  as  one  is  bound  to 
his  body  in  a  dream. —  I'll  kill  the  tree. 
[He  draws  his  short  sword  and  smites  the  tree. 
There  is  a  cry  from  the  house  and  Aoyagi  en 
ters  quickly,  followed  by  Riki,  Obaa-San, 
O-Katsu-San,  and  O-Sode-San.  Aoyagi  holds 
her  heart. 

RIKI 

Aoyagi!  (She  droops  in  his  arms.  Obaa-San 
lays  her  hand  upon  her  dear  child's  head. 
O-Katsu-San  understands,.  The  Gaki  in  tri 
umph  smiles  again.  Aoyagi  cries  out  and  shud 
ders  as  she  clings  to  Riki}  Oh,  whatever  power 
gave  strength  to  me  and  led  me  to  my  love,  give 
me  the  chance  to  save  my  love. 

AOYAGI 

The  tree  !  —  The  tree ! 
[  The  Gaki  smites  again. 
RIKI 

The  Gaki  of  Kokoru !  Ay,  I  know!  I  know! 
I  fight  a  fear,  Obaa-San.  Hold  Aoyagi  fast  — 
with  all  your  love. —  I  shall  find  the  Gaki  of 
Kokoru  !  ( The  Gaki  smites  the  tree  again  and 
again,  and  at  each  stroke  Aoyagi  fails  more 
and  more  until  she  finally  crumples  in  a  heap 
among  the  three  old  women)  All  strength! 

63 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

All  faith  to  me  !  Into  my  hands  give  the  power 
to  break  the  bitterest  hell  asunder !  Into  my 
eyes  put  light  that  I  may  see  the  cowardly  fears 
that  infest  our  way. —  Gaki !  Gaki !  where  are 
you?  —  I  pass  about  you  and  in  my  heart  I 
carry  fearlessness  and  faith. —  Upon  your 
wickedness  I  hurl  belief. —  Ah,  now,  I  see  you. 

THE    GAKI 

Let  me  go  !     Let  me  go ! 
RIKI 

You  shall  bring  misery  into  no  more  hearts ! 
THE    GAKI 

Ah,  pity  me!  Let  me  go!  I  must  feed  or  I 
shall  die ! 

RIKI 

You  shall  feed  no  more ! 

THE    GAKI 

Do  not  let  me  die  in  this  sixth  hell!  Do  not 
let  me  die !  Once  I  was  human  —  like  you 
and  you.  I  came  into  this  hell  because  I  was 
bitter  in  life. —  I  made  misery  for  others. —  I 
put  mischief  in  their  minds. — 

RIKI  (leaping  upon  him] 

You  shall  make  no  more  misery. 

THE    GAKI 

Let  me   feed !     Let  me  live !     I  can  not  die 
thus. 
RIKI  (throttling  him] 

Dread  demon,  the  end  has  come! 

THE    GAKI 

Please  —  please  —  hear  me. 
RIKI 

Nay,  you  have  made  your  last  horror  in  our 
lives. 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

OBAA-SAN 

Riki !     Hear  him  —  hear  him. —  We  know  not 
what  we  do,  perhaps. 
RIKI 

Then  speak. 

THE    GAKI 

Let  me  go !  Do  you  think  it  did  not  punish 
me  to  see  your  misery,  to  bring  misery  upon 
you?  That  is  what  these  hells  are.  In  life  we 
can  not  always  see  what  wretchedness  we  make; 
in  the  hells  we  see  and  know  and  understand, 
but  we  can  not  escape  our  evil  until  we've  sucked 
the  bitterness,  the  horror  to  the  blackest  end. 
Oh  —  five  hells  lie  between  me  and  human  life. 
In  each  I  may  perchance  forget  the  lesson 
learned  before.  Let  me  live !  Let  me  live ! 
—  I  can  not  fight  your  faith !  —  Let  me  live  ! 

RIKI 

What  further  harm  will  you  do? 

THE    GAKI 

I  cannot  help  myself.  I  must  live  on  you. — 
You  are  young  — 

[He  tears  himself  from  Riki  and  once  more 
rushes  to  the  tree.  Aoyagi  writhes  a  moment 
in  agony.  Riki  leaps  upon  The  Gaki,  throt 
tling  him  once  more.  The  struggle  is  terriffic. 

RIKI 

Die! 

THE    GAKI 

Let  me  go !     Let  me  live !  —  I  promise  any 
thing  —  I  — 
RIKI 

Too  late !  —  You  shall  harm  no  more ! 

\With  one  supreme  effort,  The  Gaki  draws  him- 

65 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

self  to  his  full  height  and  seems  about  to  crush 
Riki.  He  leaps  upon  the  prostrate  Aoyagi  and 
flings  her  body  high  above  his  head.  Riki 
starts  for  him. 

THE    GAKI 

I  shall  live !     I  shall  live ! 

RIKI 

Aoyagi ! 

THE    GAKI 

Come  not  near  me,  Riki,  or  I  shall  crush  her  at 
your  feet.  I  shall  live  ! 

[He  laughs  the  hideous  laugh  of  triumph  which 
rang  out  on  the  mountain  side  yesterday. 

OBAA-SAN 

Give  her  back  to  us!      Feed  on  me ! 

THE    GAKI 

In  your  heart  there  is  only  hope  and  beautiful 
memory.     Old  fool,  I  can  not  feed  on  you.— 
But  now  in  my  arms  I  hold  the  precious  gift  by 
which  I  shall  pass  from  hell  to  hell. 
0-KATSU-SAN 

Take  me ! 

THE    GAKI 

Silly  old  woman,  you,  too,  like  Obaa-San,  can 
not  feed  me.  Age  learns  to  grasp  at  bubbles 
and  pretend  that  they  are  stars. 

0-KATSU-SAN 

But  I  shall  dream  of  my  little  girl. 
THE    GAKI 

Ay,  dream  of  her  and  have  tender  memories 

that  are  not  pain. 
O-SODE-SAN 

I   shall  think  of  him   and  long  for  him,   my 

lover. 

66 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

THE    GAKI 

Ay,  and  in  the  memory  of  the  firefly  fete  you'll 
make  a  poem  that  will  leave  you  all  melting-like 
and  holy  —  then  where  shall  I  feed? 

RIKI 

Obaa-San,  are  you  content?     I'll  let  her  die  at 
my  own  hand  before  I'll  let  him  live. 
[He  draws  his  dagger  and  leaps  toward  The 
Gaki;  but  old  Obaa-San  is  too  swift  for  him. 
She  catches  his  hand. 

OBAA-SAN 

Riki !     Would  you  kill  the  evil  by  killing  the 
joy  of  us  all? 
RIKI 

But  the  joy  —  my  little  Aoyagi  —  can  not  live 
so.  See  — 

OBAA-SAN 

0  Gaki  of  Kokoru  —  I  stand  before  you,  no 
longer  a  suppliant.      I  am  old  and  in  my  years 

1  have  known  all  the  wanting,  all  the  hopeless 
ness  one  can  know  in  life.      But  in  your  evil 
way,  you  brought  to  me  a  moment  of  happiness 
yesterday  and  in  that  moment  I  saw  the  beauty 
that  I  had  always  believed  must  be  and  yet  that 
I  had  never  known.      In  your  evil  arms  you  hold 
the  treasure  of  my  life  —  you  hold  the  songs 
that  filled  the  heart  of  Riki.     But  you  do  not 
feed,  oh,  Gaki  of  Kokoru.     You  can  not  feed. 
Oh,  Gaki,  what  is  this  sixth  hell  of  yours?  — 
Who  made  it?     Some  man  who  was  afraid  of 
the  joy  of  life;  —  it  was  too  beautiful  for  his 
belief.      Misery    makes    itself:     so    happiness 
makes  itself.     You  stand  before  us,  holding  the 
darling  of  our  dreams,  but  there  is  no  misery 

67 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

so  great  as  yours.     See !     I  stand  before  you 

—  unafraid  —  and  in  my  heart  lies  happiness. 

—  Aoyagi  rested  in  my  arms  and  my  breast  is 
warm  and  there  is  a  glory  where  her  dear  head 
lay.     In  my  life  —  if  you  take  her  from  me  — 
there  will  be  an  emptiness. —  There  will  be  long 
silences  in  the  days  to  come;  but  my  breast  will 
still  be  warm  with  her  touch  and  my  ears  will 
still  hear  the  sweet  words  you  cannot  unsay  — 
the  lullaby  I  sang. —  Oh,  Gaki  —  it  has  been 
sung  to  her. —  The  climbing  to  the  mountain 
gleaming  in  the   sun  —  the  glade  where  love 
found   the   perfect   mystery  —  that   cannot  be 
undone  whether  we  live  or  die. —  Love  that  has 
been  can  never  be  undone. 

[The  Gaki  looks  from  one  to  the  other,  but  finds 
only  that  splendid  happiness  that  is  almost  pain. 
He  loosens  his  hold  upon  Aoyagi  and  turns  to 
Riki  with  her. 

THE    GAKI 

She  is  yours !  —  I  have  met  perfect  faith. — 
Five  hells  lie  before  me  —  but  I  have  met  a 
perfect  faith. —  You  cannot  know  what  wonder 
I  am  knowing.  From  the  sixth  hell  I  have  seen 
a  perfect  faith. —  I  am  content  to  die  in  this 
shape.  Strike,  Riki ! 
RIKI 

I  have  my  love. 

THE    GAKI 

But  a  peace  has  come  upon  me,  a  peace  that  I 
have  never  known. —  I  seem  to  be  on  wings  — 
afloat  in  the  sky. —  Stars  and  suns  swing  gently 
by  —  and  cool  clouds  brush  my  brow. —  Five 
hells  lie  before  me. —  Can  it  be,  in  each  I  shall 
68 


WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 

find  peace  like  this?  —  (He  falls  on  his  knees) 
Now  a  fire  rages  deep  in  me  —  a  pain  —  I'm 
torn. —  Oh,  Obaa-San,  I  die  —  I  die. —  Come 
to  me  —  touch  me  —  let  me  feel  your  gentle 
hands. —  So !  So  !  —  I  have  never  known  such 
gentleness. —  Oh,  I  am  cold  —  cold!  Hold 
me  — 

[He  rises  * —  sways  —  and  falls.  It  is  full  day. 
The  Gaki  rises  wonderfully. 
Obaa-San  —  I  see  —  I  see. —  The  hells  were 
made  by  some  man  afraid  of  the  joy  of  life. — 
It  was  too  beautiful  for  his  belief. —  Riki  — 
Aoyagi,  there  is  the  mountain  gleaming  in  the 
morning  light. —  Go  —  see  your  footprints  side 
by  side. —  A  Gaki's  feet  trod  upon  them,  but 
left  no  mark  —  and  they  are  there  side  by  side. 

—  O-Sode-San,    I    look    across    the    River    of 
Heaven;  —  there  stands  your  lover  waiting  for 
you  —  an  empty  boat  is  here  to  bear  you  to  him. 

—  O-Katsu-San, —  the  messenger  of  the  other 
world  bears  your  little   one  upon   his  broad, 
warm  back. —  They  are  smiling,  O-Katsu-San 

—  Obaa-San  — 

[He  points  to  Riki  and  Aoyagi.    Obaa-San  goes 
to  them  and  lays  her  hands  upon  them. 
OBAA-SAN 

My  little  girl !  —  my  little  boy !  —  Today  the 
sun  is  very  bright. 


The  Curtains  Close. 


THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 
AN  INTERLUDE  BEFORE  THE  CURTAIN 


CHARACTERS 

SHE 

HE 

BROTHER 

The  scene  is  half  way  to  a  proposal. 

A  hallway  with  a  heavily -curtained  doorway  in 
the  centre.  Right  of  this  are  two  chairs  with 
a  tabouret  between  them.  Right  and  Left  are 
curtained  arches. 


THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 


She  enters  quickly,  crossing  to  the  chairs. 

HE    (following  breathlessly  and  almost  colliding 

with  her  as  she  stops) 

Genevieve ! 
SHE   (with  a  calmness  strangely  at  variance  with 

her  entrance) 

Well? 

HE 

Why  did  you  — 
SHE 

I  didn't. 

HE 

I  beg  your  pardon,  you  may  not  have  known  it, 
but  you  did. 
SHE 

I  didn't. 

HE 

If  you'll  only  say  you  didn't  mean  it. 
SHE 

I  didn't  do  it. 
HE 

Now,  Genevieve,  you  know  — 
SHE 

I  didn't. 

HE 

Well,  why  did  you  — ? 

SHE 

/  didn't  do  it! 
HE  (meltingly  but  without  humor  or  subtlety) 

Well,  if  you  didn't  do  it,  dear  — 

[She  is  adamant. 

Why  did  you  run  away  the  moment  I  came  up 

to  you? 

73 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

SHE 

I  didn't  run  away  — 

[He  looks  at  her  quizzically. 

I  just  came  out  here. 
HE  (hoping  it  isn't  true) 

But  you  seemed  to  be  trying  to  avoid  me. 
SHE  (with  sphinx-like  indifference) 

Why  should  I  avoid  you? 
HE 

Genevieve !     You   make   it  impossible   for  me 

to  talk  to  you.  .  .  .  I'll  apologise  if  it  will  help. 
SHE 

Why  should  you  apologise? 
HE 

Perhaps  I've  misconstrued  your  meaning. 
SHE 

I  didn't  mean  anything  - 

[He  smiles  pleasantly  with  more  hope  than  dis 
cretion. 

—  because  I  didn't  do  it. 
HE 

Now,  Genevieve,  I  saw  you  do  it. 
SHE 

You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  Mr.  Gordon,  from 

further  discussion. 

[She  seats  herself,  fully  prepared  for  all  the 

discussion  she  can  force  from  him. 
HE 

But,  Genevieve  — 

[He  seats  himself. 
SHE 

I  didn't  do  it  —  and  besides  if  I  did  what  dif 
ference   does   it   make?     I'm   free   white   and 

twenty-one. 

74 


THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 


HE  (with  a  frail  attempt  at  humor) 
How  old  did  you  say? 

SHE 

I  said  I  was  free  white. 

HE 

But,  Genevieve,  you  must  admit  that  — 

SHE 

Mr.  Gordon! 

HE 

Please  call  me  Henry.      (In  his  emotion  he  pro 
nounces  it  Hennery) 

SHE 

I  don't  see  why  I  should. 
HE 

You  did  last  night. 
SHE 

That  was  different.     You  were  Dr.  Jekyll  last 

night. 
HE 

Oh,  Genevieve  — 
SHE 

You're  showing  your  true  colors  tonight. 
HE  (appealingly) 

I'm  —  sorry  — 

SHE 

You're  a  tyrant. 
HE 

I  don't  mean  to  be.     I  think  you're  wo  — 

SHE 

Now  don't  be  personal.     I'm  not  interested  in 
your  thoughts. 
HE 

But,  Genevieve,  won't  you  tell  me  why  you  did 
it? 

75 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

SHE 

I  did  it  because  —  I've  told  you  often  enough  I 
didn't  do  it. 
HE   (bitterly) 
Joe  — 

SHE 

Joe  —  what? 

HE 

Joe  squeezed  your  hand. 

SHE 

Well,  it's  my  hand,  and  besides  I  don't  see  why 

I  should  be  cross-questioned  by  you. 
HE 

You  know  I'm  — 

[He  leans  toward  her  and  she  moves  away. 
SHE 

You're  what? 
HE 

I'm  crazy  about  you. 
SHE 

Please,  Mr.  Gordon ! 
HE 

Call  me  Henry!     Just  once. 

SHE 

I  don't  see  why  I  should. 
HE 

Please,  Genevieve. 
SHE 

Now  don't  be  silly! 

HE 

Oh,  Genevieve,  if  you  only  knew  how  it  hurt  me 
when  you  did  it! 

SHE 

Did  it  hurt  you? 

76 


THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 


HE 

I  could  have  killed  Joe  —  gladly. 
SHE 

Honest! 
HE 

You  know  —  you  must  know ! 
SHE 

You  certainly  are  calm  about  it. 
HE  (in  the  most  absurd  position  that  hopeless  love 

can  twist  a  man  into) 

What  can  I  do?     I  can't  be  ridiculous. 
SHE 

Did  you  really  see  us? 
HE 

Yes,  I  saw  you. 

SHE 

You  seemed  terribly  tied  up  with  Ethel. 
HE 

I  had  to  sit  by  her. 
SHE 

I  don't  see  why. 
HE 

I  didn't  have  any  place  else  to  go. 
SHE 

I  knew  you  were  looking. 
HE 

Then  why  did  you  do  it? 
SHE 

Don't  ask  me  why.     I  loathe  why. 
HE 

But  oh,  Genevieve,  I  love  you  so ! 

[He  grasps  her  hand,  not  too  violently.     She 

gasps  slightly}  smiles  pleasantly  and  becomes 

stern. 

77 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

SHE  (encouragingly) 

Please,  let  go  of  my  hand. 

[He  does  so.     She   looks   at  him   in  mingled 

wonder  and  chagrin. 
HE 

Genevieve,  isn't  there  any  chance  for  me? 
SHE 

I've  never  thought  of  such  a  thing.     What  do 

you  mean ! 
HE 

I  mean  I  love  you. 

SHE 

.   .  .  Yes? 
HE  (taking  her  scarf  in  his  hand) 

Aren't  you  interested? 
SHE 

Why,  really,  Mr.  Gordon,  you  ask  such  strange 

questions. 
HE 

Oh,  Genevieve  —  Genevieve  — 

[He  kisses  the  scarf  gently. 
SHE    (looking  at  him  in  wonder,  disappointment 

and  delight. 

Don't  be  silly. 
HE 

When  a   man's  in  love  he  always   does  silly 

things. 

SHE 

Always? 
HE 

Oh,  Genevieve  — 

[He  reaches  for  her  hand  reverently  and  this 

time  she  seems  content  to  let  matters  rest. 
SHE  (making  conversation) 

78 


THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 


I  have  the  next  dance  with  — 
[She  racks  her  memory. 

HE 

Joe,  I  suppose. 

[He  rises  and  crosses  to  the  far  side  of  the 

centre  arch. 

SHE   (drawing  her  scarf  about  her  and  brushing 
against  him  as  she  passes. 
Excuse  me,  please. 

HE  (torrentially] 

You  shall  not  go.  You  shall  listen  to  me. 
You  have  no  right  to  treat  me  as  a  plaything 
when  I  love  you  so !  I  love  you  so !  I  love 
you  so  !  I  think  of  you  all  day  long,  I  lie  awake 
at  night  wondering  what  stars  are  looking  upon 
you  and  I  find  myself  envying  them  —  every 
one  of  them. 

[She  tries  to  speak,  but  he  presses  her  head 
against  his  shoulder. 

I  won't  listen.  You  must  hear  me  out.  I've 
waited  days  and  days  and  days  for  this  chance 
to  speak  to  you,  and  you've  trailed  me  about 
like  —  like  —  like  a  poodle.  I'm  tired  of  it 
because  I  love  you  so. 

[She  tries  to  speak  again;  but  succeeds  only  in 
mussing  her  hair. 

HE 

I  want  you  to  marry  me,  and  marry  me  you 
shall  if  I  have  to  carry  you  away  with  me.  Oh, 
Genevieve,  my  darling  Genevieve,  just  know 
that  for  this  moment  I  am  almost  completely 
happy.  You  are  close  to  me  and  I  do  not  feel 
any  struggle  against  me.  Oh,  if  you  will  only 
listen  to  me,  I  do  not  mean  to  be  brutal.  I 
79 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

have   torn   your   dress.      I   have   mussed  your 
precious  hair.     But  I  love  you  so !     I  love  you 

so ! 

SHE 

Oh,  Henry  —  Henry  —  You  are  so  wonderful ! 

[They  embrace  one  long  moment  when  an  arm 

comes  out  between  the  curtains  and  tugs  at  his 

coat. 

He  lets  go  of  her  as  though  he  had  been  shot, 

turns  and  sees  the  naked  arm  and  the  top  of  the 

Boy's  head. 
BOY  (whispering} 

Get  her  out  of  here! 
SHE 

Oh,  Henry,  Henry,  have  I  been  cruel  to  you? 
HE  (constrained) 

We'd  better  go. 
SHE  (looks  questioningly  at  him) 

Please  let's  stay  here. 

[He  presses  her  head  against  his  breast  and 

looks  surreptitiously  at  the  curtains. 

The  Boy  makes  as  though  to  get  out. 

He  starts  violently  —  shoves  the  Boy  back. 

SHE 

I    saw    you    first  —  do    you    remember  —  at 

Poughkeepsie. 
HE 

Yes,  yes  — 
SHE 

I   think  —  I  liked  you  then.  .  .  But  I  never 

thought  you'd  be  so  wonderful. 
HE 

Let's  go  (whispering).     Darling,  let's  go. 
80 


THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 


THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 


SHE 

No,  I  want  to  stay  here.     I  love  this  nook. 
[He  laughs  nervously  as  she  crosses  to  the  cur 
tains. 

I  should  love  to  fill  it  full  of  great  tall  lilies. 
[By  this  time  she  has  become  lyric  and  swept 
her  arms  against  the  curtains:  with  a  cry,  rush 
ing  to  him  for  protection. 
Henry,  there's  a  man  behind  those  curtains! 

HE 

I  think  we'd  better  go. 

SHE 

Oh,  Henry,  you're  not  going  to  leave  him  here. 

HE 

We'd  better. 

BOY  (poking  his  head  and  a  naked  arm  through 
the  curtains. 

Yes,  you'd  better,  because  I'm  going  to  get  out 
of  here. 

SHE 

Bob!     You  get  your  clothes  on! 

BOY 

I  told  Mr.  Gordon  to  get  my  clothes. 
SHE 

Mr.  Gordon  — 
BOY 

Call  him  Henry  —  just  once  —  please,  Gene- 

vieve. 
HE  (stiffly) 

I'll  get  your  clothes.     Where  are  they? 

BOY 

In  my  room. 

81 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

HE 

What  do  you  want? 
BOY 

Everything. 
SHE  (straightening  up) 

Don't  be  common,  Robert. 

[He  starts  for  the  door. 
HE 

No,  I'm  not  going. 

SHE 

Hen  — Mr.     Gordon!  .   .  .  Very    well.     I'll 

go! 
HE 

No,  you  won't  go  either! 
SHE 

Please ! 

BOY 

Well,  I'll  go. 

[Boy  moves  as  though  to  part  the  curtains. 
She  screams  a  stifled  little  scream  and  both  he 
and  she  rush  to  the  curtains  to  hold  them  to 
gether. 

SHE 

Oh,  Bob,  if  you  won't  get  out  I'll  do  anything 
for  you. 

BOY 

Well,  I'm  cold. 

SHE 

Mr.  Gordon,  please  go. 
HE 

I  won't  go ! 

SHE 

You  are  very  strange,  indeed.   .   .   .   I'll  go! 
[She  nears  the  door. —  Stops. 
82 


THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 


SHE 

Never  mind. 
BOY 

Oh,  Henry,  it's  Ethel. 

HE 

Bob,  won't  you  be  a  good  sport?     We'll  turn 

our  backs. 
BOY 

But  will  everybody  else  turn  their  back? 
HE 

Old  man,  can't  you  see  how  it  is?     We're  — 

we're  going  to  be  engaged  —  and  Ethel  is  out 

there  —  and  —  and  —  well  — 
BOY 

Joe's  out  there,  too. 
HE 

Well,  yes. 

SHE 

Bob,  I  shall  tell  Fat'her  on  you. 
[She  starts. 
BOY 

All  right,  go  .ahead.     I'll  tell  Ethel. 

SHE 

Just  wait. 

BOY 

I'll  get  out  of  here! 

[Again  the  two  rush  precipitately  to  hold  the 

Boy  in  place. 

HE 

Bob,  be  a  man !  You  are  childish  and  common. 
You  are  old  enough  to  know  better  and  I  think 
it's  an  outrage  for  you  to  subject  your  sister  to 
this  fright.  We  can't  go  out  of  here  just  now 

83 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 


—  and  you're  making  it  very  embarrassing  for 
us. 
SHE 

Mr.  Gordon  —  there's  a  cape  in  that  closet. 
Will  you  get  it  for  Bob.  .  .  He  says  he's  cold. 
[He  goes  to  the  closet. 

SHE 

Bob,  I'll  get  even  with  you.     You  ought  to  be 

ashamed.      I'm  humiliated. 
BOY 

Why  — Sis? 
SHE 

Imagine  my  being  with  a  gentleman  and  having 

a  very  naked  boy  pop  into  the  conversation. 

[He  returns  with  the  cape. 
HE 

Here's  the  cape. 

[He  tosses  it  over  the  Boy's  head  and  suddenly 
leans  over  and  kisses  her. 
BOY 

Why  don't  you  smother  me! 
[Boy  begins  to  emerge. 

SHE 

Bob,  be  careful. 
[He  and  She  turn  away. 

The  Boy  rises  and  as  he  does  so  the  cloak  falls 
about  him  until,  when  he  steps  out  of  the  cur 
tains  he  discloses  trousers  and  shoes. 

BOY 

I  can't  go  through  the  hall  looking  like  this. 
SHE 

You  must. 
HE  (turning) 

84 


THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 


Go  away,  Bob.     Your  sister  is  very  nervous. 

[He  sees  the  boy  fairly  well  clothed.    He  gasps. 
HE 

Why  — 
SHE 

Bob  — 

[Turning  she  sees  the  boy  fairly  well  clothed. 
I  thought  —  How  did  you  —  Why  didn't  you 
—  What  were  you  doing  in  there? 

BOY 

Father  was  going  to  get  strict  and  keep  me  oft 
the  water  tonight  and  just  as  I  came  down  here 
to  get  my  sweater  I  heard  him  coming  to  the 
coat  room  so  I  jumped  behind  the  curtains  and 
let  him  pass  and  then  Joe  and  Ethel  came  in 
and  I  couldn't  let  them  see  me  this  way.  And 
then  somebody  else  came  and  then  you  came 
in  —  well,  I  got  cold. 

HE   (looking  out) 

Run  on  now,  Bob,  the  hall  is  clear. 
[Boy  starts. 

BOY 

What  was  it  you  did,  Sis? 

SHE 

I  didn't  do  it. 

BOY 

Why  didn't  you  do  it? 

SHE 

I  didn't  do  anything 

BOY 

He  said  Joe  squeezed  your  hand. 
SHE 

Absurd ! 

85 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

BOY 

Well,  I  hope  not,  because  fhe  and  Ethel  got 
engaged  in  here  too ! 

[He  and  She  look  fondly  at  each  other  and 
He  murmurs,  "  Genevieve  "  as  he  reaches  out 
for  her. 

The  Boy  begins  to  sing,  "  Oh,  Genevieve,  Sweet 
Genevieve/'  and  they  become  aware  of  him, 
turning  upon  him  and  pursuing  him  with  a  warn 
ing  cry  of  "  Bob." 


The  End 


86 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 
A  PLAY  IN  THREE  ACTS 


CHARACTERS 

AUNT  LETITIA 
SUSAN  SAMPLE 
UNCLE  NATHANIEL 
UNCLE  JOHN 
JONATHAN 
MLLE.  PERRAULT 
HANK 

ALBERT  PEET 
MARY 
JOHN  III 


ACT  I 

JONATHAN  MAKES  A  FRIEND 

[The  scene  represents  the  lumber  room  in  the 
carriage  house  on  John  Clay's  suburban  estate. 
The  room  is  crowded  with  old  trunks,  paintings, 
barrels,  boxes,  chests,  furniture  showing  long 
residence  during  slow  epochs  of  changing  taste. 
Everything  is  in  good  order  and  carefully  la 
belled.  At  the  right  of  the  room  is  a  door 
opening  onto  the  stairs  which  lead  to  the  ground 
floor.  A  small  window  is  set  high  in  the  peak 
of  the  gabled  end  up  centre.  At  the  left  a  chim 
ney  comes  through  the  floor  and  cuts  into  the 
roof  as  though  it  had  been  added  by  Victorian 
standards  of  taste  for  exterior  beautification. 
An  open  stove  intrudes  its  pipe  into  the  chim 
ney.  The  single  indication  of  the  life  of  today 
having  touched  the  place  is  the  studied  arrange 
ment  of  an  old  rosewood  square  grand  piano. 
The  keyboard  is  uncovered.  On  the  top  is  a 
tiny  theatre  —  a  model  masked  and  touched 
with  mystery,  according  to  early  adolescent 
standards.  Two  benches  stand  in  front  of  the 
piano,  and  the  piano  stool  is  meticulously  set  in 
place.  A  flamboyant  placard  leaning  against 
the  music  rack  announces: 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

TODAY 

ZENOBIA 

A  tragedy  in  ten  acts 

by 

Alexander  Jefferson,   Sr. 

The  light  in  the  room  is  dim,  although  it  is  quite 
bright  out  of  doors.  There  are  two  low  win 
dows  which  are  heavily  barred.  The  little  thea 
tre  is  so  arranged  that  when  the  manipulator 
stands  on  the  box  to  work  it,  his  head  can  be 
seen  over  the  masking. 

The  curtain  rises  disclosing  an  empty  room. 
Presently  laborious  steps  are  heard  on  the  stairs 
and  a  key  is  turned  in  the  lock.  Then  Aunt 
Letitia  enters  followed  by  Susan  Sample.  Aunt 
Letitia  is  a  motherly  old  woman  who  has  been 
in  the  Clay  home  for  many  years.  She  may 
have  preferences,  but  like  the  buildings  on  the 
estate,  she  stays  where  she  is.  Susan  Sample  is 
a  tall,  slender  girl  of  fourteen  with  a  very  gen 
tle  manner  and  a  way  of  looking  at  people  that 
indicates  a  receptivity  rarely  met  in  one  so  old. 
Letitia  goes  to  one  of  the  trunks  marked  E  R 
in  large  white  letters  and  unlocks  it. 

LETITIA 

Here  they  are,  my  dear.     Help  me  with  the 
hasps. 
SUSAN 

What  does  E.  R.  really  stand  for,  Mis'  Letitia? 

LETITIA 

E.  R.   .   .   .  That's  a  secret,  Susan,  that  little 
girls  aren't  supposed  to  know. 
90 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

SUSAN 

I  won't  tell. 
LETITIA 

But    what    good   would    that   do,    my   sweet? 

Please  open  the  windows. 
SUSAN  (opening  the  window  and  returning  to  her 

question) 

No  one  would  know  you  told  me. 
LETITIA 

I  would  know.     Yes,  I  would  know  that  I  had 

told  somebody  else's  secret. 
SUSAN 

Whose  secret  is  it?     Please. 
LETITIA 

I've  been  living   in   this   house   for  thirty-five 

years,  Susan,  and  I've  known  the  secrets  of  all 

the  boys  and  girls  from  time  to  time. 

SUSAN 

You  know  mine,  too. 
LETITIA 

And  I've  never  told  one  of  them,  either. 
SUSAN 

Does  old  Mr.  John  ever  have  secrets? 

LETITIA 

Old  Mr.  John!     For  shame!  ...  Of  course 
he  has  secrets. 
SUSAN 

I  wish  I  knew  some  of  his,  Mis'  Letitia. 

LETITIA 

My  dear,  you  never  will  know  them.     John  is 
very  quiet. 

SUSAN 

Who  in  the  family  didn't  have  any  secrets  at 
all? 

91 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

LETITIA 

Oh,  they  all  had  secrets  when  they  were  young. 
Nathaniel  had  fewer  than  any  of  them  and  .  .  . 
\Her  words  are  lost  tenderly  in  a  memory. 

SUSAN 

Why  hasn't  he  ever  come  back  home? 

LETITIA   (as  she  busies  herself  with  the  contents 
of  the  trunk) 

That  is  his  secret,  Susan,  and  we  mustn't  ask 
too  many  questions.  Nathaniel  is  coming  to 
day.  I  won't  ask  any  questions.  .  .  .  He  was 
a  fine  young  man.  Yes,  he's  coming  back 
today,  my  dear.  He  was  the  baby  of  the 
family. 

SUSAN 

How  old  is  he  now? 

LETITIA 

You  little  chatterbox!     Between  you  and  Jona 
than  I  have  to  fight  to  keep  anybody's  secrets. 
SUSAN 

Does  Jonathan  ask  many  questions? 

LETITIA 

When  we're  alone  he  does.     He's  just  like  his 

Uncle  Nathaniel.     God  bless  him! 
SUSAN  (seeing  a  costume  in  the  trunk) 

Oh,  isn't  that  just  wonderful ! 
LETITIA  (holding  the  costume  up  for  Susan  to  see) 

That  is  what  you  can  wear  in  the  pageant,  my 

dear  Susan. 
SUSAN  (taking  the  costume) 

Oh !     Oh !     Oh !  ...  I  wish  I  knew  whose  it 

was. 

LETITIA 

Would  that  make  it  any  prettier? 
92 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

SUSAN 

No,  but  I'd  like  to  know  just  the  same.  .  .  . 
Was  it  E.  R.'s? 

t4  cry  is  heard  outside,  "  Aunt  Letty !     Aunt 
etty!" 

LETITIA 

Oh,  Susan,  it's  Nathaniel !     It's  my  boy.     Here 

I  am,  dear. 

[She  has  an  armful  of  costumes  which  she  drops 

nervously. 
SUSAN 

Mis'  Letitia,  I  believe  you  love  him  best  of  all! 
LETITIA 

No,  I  don't,  but  I  always  understood  him,  I 

think. 

[The  voice    below   calls   again,    "Where    are 

you?" 

Come  up  here,  my  boy.     Come  up  to  the  lum 
ber  room. 

[Steps   are  heard  on   the  stairs,   young  eager 

steps,  and  Nathaniel  Clay  bursts  into  the  room. 

He  is  an  eternally  young  man  of  thirty-five,  who 

has  touched  the  dregs  and  the  heights  of  the 

world  and  remained  himself. 
NATHANIEL  (taking  Letitia  in  his  arms,  then  hold- 

ing  her  from  him  as  he  inspects  her. 

Aunt  Letty!     Not  a  day  older.   .  .  .  But  oh,  so 

wise. 

LETITIA 

Nathaniel,  my  boy,  my  darling,  darling  boy. 

NATHANIEL 

Now,  now.     Don't  cry. 
LETITIA 

My  boy,  my  boy.     My  splendid  boy. 
93 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

[Susan  has  forgotten  her  costume  in  her  ad 
miration  for  Nathaniel.  She  puts  it  down  on 
the  bench  in  front  of  the  piano. 

NATHANIEL 

And  this  is  — 

LETITIA 

This  is  Susan  Sample. 

NATHANIEL 

Not  — 

LETITIA 

Yes,  time  has  been  flying,  Nathaniel.  This 
young  lady  is  Mary  Sample's  daughter. 

NATHANIEL 

How  do  you  do  ?     I  can't  believe  it.     You  were 
only  a  little  pink  cherub  up  there  in  the  sky  when 
I  ran  — 
LETITIA   (hurriedly  interrupting  him) 

Yes,  Susan  was  born  three  years  after  you  went 
away. 

NATHANIEL 

Oh!  .  .  .  And,  Aunt  Letitia,  you've  opened 
Emily's  trunk! 

LETITIA 

Yes,  Susan  is  going-to  be  in  a  pageant. 
SUSAN 

Who  was  Emily? 
NATHANIEL 

She  was  — 
LETITIA 

Nathaniel  dear,  you  must  not  satisfy  her  curi 
osity. 

( To  Susan) 

You  go  find  Jonathan,  dear,  and  tell  him  that 
his  uncle  is  here. 

94 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

( To  Nathaniel) 

I'll  put  these  things  away,  and  we'll  go  into  the 
house. 

SUSAN  (reluctantly) 
Good-bye,  Mr.  Clay. 

NATHANIEL 

Good-bye,    Susan.     You'll    come    back,    won't 
you? 
SUSAN 

Oh,  yes.     Good-bye. 

NATHANIEL 
Good-bye. 
[Susan  goes  out. 

LETITIA 

She  hates  to  go.     She's  never  seen  anyone  just 
like  you :  and  I  have  only  seen  one. 
NATHANIEL 

Who's  Jonathan? 

LETITIA 

He's  the  one.  .  .  He's  Emily's  boy. 

NATHANIEL 

You  mean  Emily  — 

LETITIA 

No,  no,  my  dear.  Emily  was  married,  left  the 
stage.  She  wasn't  happy.  The  boy  was  her 
only  comfort. 

NATHANIEL 

He's  my  nephew.  Why,  I'm  Uncle  Nathaniel. 
Oh,  Aunt  Letty,  I'm  getting  to  be  an  old  man ! 

LETITIA 

Nathaniel,  Jonathan  doesn't  know  about  his 
mother.  I  sent  Susan  away  because  I  didn't 
want  her  to  associate  these  things  with  Jona 
than's  mother. 

95 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

NATHANIEL 

My  God,  Emily  didn't  do  anything  wrong. 
LETITIA 

Well,  she  was  an  actress. 

NATHANIEL 

And  a  good  one,  too. 

LETITIA 

Yes,  yes,  dear.  All  that  has  been  talked  over 
many  times,  but  John  is  the  head  of  the  family 
and  he  doesn't  approve  of  the  stage. 

NATHANIEL 

So !     John  is  still  himself. 

LETITIA 

John  is  austere,  Nathaniel.  He  is  a  Clay 
through  and  through  and  he  holds  to  the  tradi 
tions  of  the  family. 

NATHANIEL 

I  remember  the  traditions,  Aunt  Letitia. 
LETITIA 

I  never  oppose  John.     He  feels  that  he  is  right. 

But  it  is  very  hard  sometimes  to  live  up  to  his 

rules. 
NATHANIEL 

Has  he  rules? 

LETITIA 

Well,  he  has  ideas,  dear  —  much  like  your  fa 
ther's.  We  might  call  them  rules. 

NATHANIEL 

Where  is  Emily? 

LETITIA 

Two  years  ago,  Nathaniel. 
[There  is  a  moment's  silence. 
NATHANIEL 

Did  she  ever  go  back  to  the  stage? 
96 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

No.     John  forbade  it. 
NATHANIEL 

And  John  is  still  forbidding. 

LETITIA 

John  is  the  head  of  the  family. 

NATHANIEL 

So.  .  .  The   Clay  family   is   still   an   absolute 

monarchy. 
LETITIA 

Nathaniel,  dear,  will  you  promise  me  — 
NATHANIEL  (with  a  smile) 

I'll  try. 

LETITIA 

Will  you  promise  not  to  antagonize  John? 

NATHANIEL 

Will  John  antagonize  me?  I  came  back  to  see 
my  home  —  to  see  you,  my  dear  aunt.  But  I 
am  a  grown  man  now. 

LETITIA 

Won't  you  try  to  be  patient?  It  will  be  pleas- 
anter  for  me.  And  I  have  waited  so  long  to  see 
you,  Nathaniel.  There  are  seventeen  very, 
very  long  years  for  us  tc  talk  about.  Let  John 
have  his  way. 

NATHANIEL 

Well,  I'll  try  for  a  few  days.     But  I  give  you 
warning,  my  ideas  have  been  settling  during  the 
past  few  years,  too. 
LETITIA 

Remember,  he  is  used  to  being  obeyed  just  as 
your  father  was. 

NATHANIEL 

Yes,  I  remember  that,  dear  Aunt;  but  John  isn't 
97 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

my  father.     He  is  just  a  brother  to  whom  fate 

fave  a  fifteen  years'  start  by  birth. 
As   a  voice   calls,    "  Nathaniel,    are   you   up 
there?  "     Nathaniel  looks  at  Letitia. 
NATHANIEL 

His  voice  is  just  the  same.      (Calling]      Yes, 
John,  I  am  up  here. 

[The  antagonism  between  the  two  brothers  is 
apparent  immediately. 

John  Clay  enters.  He  is  an  austere,  pompous 
man  of  fifty  who  has  the  softness  of  the  tithe- 
collector  and  the  hardness  of  the  tax-collector. 
He  speaks  with  an  adamantine  finality  which  is 
destined  to  rude  shattering. 
JOHN 

How  do  you  do,  Nathaniel  ? 

NATHANIEL 

I  am  very  well,  I  thank  you,  John.     How  are 
you? 

[  They  shake  hands  perfunctorily. 
JOHN 

You  arrived  ahead  of  time. 

NATHANIEL 

Yes. 

JOHN 

We  haven't  met  for  seventeen  years. 

NATHANIEL 

No.     I've  been  away,  John. 

JOHN 

Where  have  you  been? 

NATHANIEL 

I  shall  be  here  for  two  weeks,  John,  and  if  I 
should  tell  you  all  about  myself  today,  I  should 
have  nothing  to  talk  about  tomorrow, 
98 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JOHN  (severely) 

You  haven't  changed,  Nathaniel.     You  are  still 
frivolous. 

NATHANIEL 

I  shall  be  serious  when  I  am  your  age,  brother. 

JOHN 

I  came  out  here  to  ask  you  to  be  very  careful  of 
your  conversation  before  the  children. 

NATHANIEL 

The  children? 

JOHN 

Yes,  my  two  grandchildren. — 

NATHANIEL 

Grandchildren !     My,  that  makes  me  a  great 
uncle.     I  am  getting  old,  Aunt  Letitia ! 

JOHN 

I  do  not  care  to  have  them  or  Jonathan  hear 
about  any  revolutionary  or  other  unusual  ideas. 
NATHANIEL 

I  shall  try  not  to  contaminate  the  children  and 
Jonathan.     How  old  are  the  children? 

JOHN 

Mary  is  four  and  John  3rd  is  two. 

NATHANIEL 

I  shall  try  to  spare  their  sensibilities. 

JOHN 

They  may  not  understand  you  but  they  will 
hear. 

NATHANIEL  (to  Letitia) 
How  old  is  Jonathan? 

LETITIA 

Fourteen. 

NATHANIEL 

The  impressionable  age. 
99 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JOHN 

The  silly  age. 

NATHANIEL 

Brother  John,  no  age  is  the  silly  age.  Fourteen 
is  the  age  of  visions  and  enchantments  and 
fears.  What  a  boy  of  fourteen  sees  and  hears 
takes  on  a  value  that  we  cannot  underestimate. 
Most  men  are  defeated  in  life  between  fourteen 
and  twenty.  At  fourteen  a  boy  begins  to  make 
a  lens  through  which  he  sees  life.  He  thinks 
about  everything.  Ambition  is  beginning  to 
stir  in  him  and  he  begins  to  know  why  he  likes 
things,  why  he  wants  to  do  certain  things.  He 
formulates  lasting  plans  for  the  future  and  he 
takes  in  impressions  that  are  indelible.  Things 
that  seem  nothing  to  old  people  become  memo- 
ories  to  him  that  affect  his  whole  life.  The 
memory  of  a  smile  may  encourage  him  to  sur 
mount  all  obstacles  and  the  memory  of  a  bitter 
ness  may  act  as  an  eternal  barrier. 

JOHN 

Nathaniel,  are  you  a  father? 

NATHANIEL 

No,  John,  I  am  only  a  bachelor  who  is  very 
much  in  love  with  life  in  general  and  one  lady  in 
particular. 

JOHN 

You  can  know  nothing  of  children,  then. 

NATHANIEL 

I  remember  myself.  Most  men  forget  their 
younger  selves  and  that  is  fatal. 

JOHN 

One  would  think  to  hear  you  talk  that  the  most 
100 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

important  things  in  life  were  a  boy  of  fourteen 
and  his  moorings. 

NATHANIEL 

One  might  know  it. 

JOHN 

You  are  still  the  same  impractical  theorist. 

NATHANIEL 

I  am  the  same  theorist  —  a  little  older,  a  little 
more  travelled.  The  trouble  with  ycu,  JpV1, 
is  that  you  think  no  age  is  important  except* 
your  own.  You  always  thought  that;,  «?ven 
when  you  were  fourteen.  Oh,  I  know  I' wasn't 
born  then,  but  I  know  you. 

JOHN 

Did  you  come  back  to  your  home  in  order  to 
lecture  me? 
NATHANIEL 

No,  no.  I  beg  your  pardon.  I  came  back  to 
see  my  home  and  Aunt  Letitia  and  the  children 
—  and  you,  and  I  —  I  think  —  Jonathan. 

JOHN 

Nathaniel,  when  your  letter  came  telling  me  that 
you  had  decided  to  come  back  to  see  us,  I  was 
going  to  ask  you  not  to  come  — 

NATHANIEL 

I  gave  no  address. 

JOHN 

But  on  second  thought,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
forgive  you  — 
NATHANIEL 

Thank  you. 

JOHN 

To  let  bygones  be  bygones. 
101 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

NATHANIEL 

That  is  the  better  way,  brother:  let  the  dead 
past  bury  its  dead. 

JOHN 

Why  did  you  run  away  from  home? 

NATHANIEL 

Because  we  couldn't  agree,  John. 
JOHN    |    • 

]  wns  older  than  you ;  my  judgment  was  mature ; 
I  was%  the  head  of  the  family,  in  my  father's 
'place  ".  •»•" 

NATHANIEL 

We  didn't  speak  the  same  language.  I  wanted 
something  out  of  life  that  you  couldn't  under 
stand;  that  my  father  couldn't  understand.  I 
determined  to  get  it  by  myself. 

JOHN 

Well? 

NATHANIEL 

And  so,  I  ran  away. 

JOHN 

Leaving  no  trace,  no  word. 

NATHANIEL 

Oh,  yes,  I  left  a  very  important  word  — u  Good 
bye." 

JOHN 

You  were  willing  to  leave  all  the  work  of  our 
father's  business  on  my  shoulders. 

NATHANIEL 

You  were  willing  to  take  it  all.     And  I  wanted 
my  freedom. 
JOHN 

You  were  selfish  and  heartless. 

IO2 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

NATHANIEL 

Selfish?  Because  I  had  my  life  to  live  and 
meant  to  live  it? 

JOHN 

You  should  have  told  us  where  you  were  living. 

NATHANIEL 

I  preferred  to  work  out  my  salvation  alone, 
without  interference.  My  going  away  gave 
you  a  free  hand.  John,  don't  tell  me  that  you 
were  not  overjoyed  that  my  flight  gave  you  all 
my  father's  fortune. 

JOHN 

It  was  my  duty  as  head  of  the  family  to  protect 
you. 

NATHANIEL 

I  didn't  ask  for  protection.  I  wanted  under 
standing. 

JOHN 

A  boy  of  eighteen  must  not  be  allowed  freedom. 

NATHANIEL 

Perhaps  not,  John,  but  he  must  be  allowed  to 
grow  toward  his  goal.  Eighteen  is  not  too 
young  for  a  man  to  fly  through  the  air  in  de 
fense  of  his  country,  or  you.  The  burden  of 
the  world  today  is  on  the  shoulders  of  men  from 
eighteen  to  eighty,  share  and  share  alike.  .  .  . 
I  wanted  to  be  a  writer  — 

JOHN 

And  our  brother  Henry  wanted  to  be  a  musical 
composer  and  our  sister  Emily  wanted  to  be  an 
actress!  A  fine  putout  for  the  leading  com 
mercial  family  of  this  state ! 

NATHANIEL 

Well,  John,  our  brother  and  our  sister  have 
103 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

paid  the  final  penalty.  They  have  died.  Henry 
left  a  handful  of  worthless  little  tunes  and  Em 
ily  left  a  trunkful  of  costumes  as  monuments 
to  their  folly.  And  now  Emily's  boy  is  here 
under  your  wing. 

JOHN 

He's  a  dreamer  like  all  the  rest  of  you. 
NATHANIEL  (with  interest;  tenderly) 
Yes? 

JOHN 

He  spends  all  his  leisure  time  playing  with  that 
fool  toy  there. 

[He  points  to  the  model  theatre. 
Nathaniel  smiles  and  crosses  to  the  piano  and 
lifts  the  cloth  that  covers  the  theatre;  then  he 
looks  at  the  placard  and  laughs  joyously. 
NATHANIEL 

"  Zenobia."     "  Alexander  Jefferson,  Sr." 

JOHN 

He  pretends  that's  his  name  —  Alexander  Jef 
ferson,  Sr ! 

NATHANIEL 

People  like  to  have  other  names.  Look  at  all 
artists  —  like  writers,  pugilists,  and  actors,  and 
base  ball  players.  And  the  Sr.  is  an  effort  to 
appear  older. 

JOHN 

Well,  I'm  breaking  him  of  all  that  nonsense.     I 
allow  him  only  a  certain  number  of  hours  for 
play.     Emily  used  to  spoil  him  and  it's  been  a 
task  to  conquer  him. 
NATHANIEL 

Jonathan  is  fourteen.     When  I  was  fourteen  — 
What  are  Jonathan's  tastes? 
104 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JOHN 

He  reads  all  the  time  and  he  wants  to  write 
plays  and  poetry;  but  I  am  conquering  that  sil 
liness. 

NATHANIEL 

I  think  I  am  going  to  like  my  nephew.  John, 
I'll  come  into  the  house  shortly.  I  think  I'll 
look  at  this  toy  a  moment  and  I'll  get  Aunt  Leti- 
tia  to  show  me  some  of  Emily's  things.  A  mere 
matter  of  sentiment. 

JOHN 

Now  don't  put  any  foolishness  into  the  boy's 
head. 

NATHANIEL 

I  promise  you  I  sha'n't  try  to  change  the  boy's 
head,  brother. 

JOHN 

I  play  golf  from  five  to  six. 
NATHANIEL 

Oh,  you've  taken  up  athletics? 

JOHN 

The  doctor's  advice.     Will  you  join  me? 

NATHANIEL 

Thank  you,  no. 

JOHN 

Very  well.     I'll  see  you  at  dinner. 

NATHANIEL 

Thank  you.  (  John  goes  out.  Nathaniel  looks 
musingly  at  Letitia  who  has  been  sitting  silently 
on  Emily's  trunk,  knitting.  Nathaniel  crosses 
to  her  and  sits  on  a  stool  at  her  feet)  Does 
John  always  talk  to  you  so  much,  little  church 
mouse? 

105 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

LETITIA 

I  have  been  a  poor  relation  for  thirty-five  years, 
my  boy,  and  to  be  a  successful  poor  relation, 
one  must  learn  the  art  of  silence. 

NATHANIEL 

No  wonder  I  ran  away ! 

LETITIA 

But  you  should  have  written  to  me. 

NATHANIEL 

Perhaps  —  I  should  —  yes  —  I  should  have 
written,  but  I  didn't.  You  see,  Aunt  Letty,  I 
was  a  sensitive  boy.  All  my  life  I  had  dreamed 
of  doing  my  own  work.  I  saw  Henry  disap 
pointed  in  life,  I  saw  Emily  made  miserable 
enough  through  the  traditions  of  the  family. 
John  couldn't  understand  me  and  I  couldn't  un 
derstand  him.  There  was  no  common  meeting- 
ground.  John  was  the  head  of  the  family  and 
so  deeply  was  the  idea  of  submission  to  rule 
ingrained  in  me  that  I  could  think  of  only  one 
way  out  of  my  restraint.  I  wouldn't  study  en 
gineering,  and  I  wouldn't  continue  at  Somerset 
School.  Well,  I  ran  away  from  my  ancestral 
castle  to  find  my  way  in  a  new  world.  I  think  I 
have  found  it. 

LETITIA 

Jonathan  doesn't  want  to  study  engineering, 
either. 

NATHANIEL      (Looks  closely   at  her  a   moment 
and  then  smiles) 

As  Ibsen  would  say  —  Ghosts !  (He  walks  to 
ward  the  window)  Poor  John  ! 

LETITIA 

Poor  Jonathan ! 

106 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

[At  this  moment  Jonathan  enters  the  room. 
He  Is  a  slender  boy  of  fourteen  with  a  deep 
problem  in  his  eyes.  When  he  smiles  before 
his  elders,  which  is  seldom,  he  seems  always 
prepared  to  restrain  the  smile.  His  'voice  is 
just  changing  and  this  adds  to  his  reticence. 
He  has  a  tremendous  capacity  for  expressing 
wonderment  and,  as  usual  with  one  of  his  type, 
he  is  capable  of  great  displays  of  temper.  He 
gives  the  impression  of  thinking  about  every 
thing  he  sees.  He  is  at  the  age  of  wonder  and 
only  custom  prevents  the  world  from  becoming 
the  promised  land  of  visions  and  enchantments. 

NATHANIEL 

Poor  Jonathan ! 
[He  turns  and  sees  the  boy. 
The  two  stand  face  to  face  for  a  moment.     For 
Nathaniel  it  is  the  first  moment  of  a  new  rela 
tionship.     For  Jonathan  it  is  a  moment  of  un 
certainty.     He  has  heard  himself  called  "  Poor 
Jonathan  "  and  he  is  facing  another  male  rela 
tive. 

Jonathan  looks  first  at  Letitia,  then  at  Nathaniel 
and  then  at  Letitia. 
LETITIA 

Jonathan,  this  is  your  Uncle  Nathaniel.     Na 
thaniel,  this  is  Emily's  boy. 

NATHANIEL      (Holds  out  his  hand  which  Jona 
than  takes  very  shyly) 
Jonathan! 

JONATHAN 

How  do  you  do,  sir? 

NATHANIEL 

How  tall  you  are ! 

107 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN  (quite  conscious  of  his  short  trousers) 
Yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

I  didn't  take  you  away  from  any  studies,  did  I? 

JONATHAN 

No,  sir.  .  .  I  was  just  writing  something  when 
Susan  called  me. 

NATHANIEL 

May  I  ask  what  you  were  writing? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir.  .  .  . 
[He  swallows. 
...  A  play. 

NATHANIEL 

A  play!     Zenobiaf 

JONATHAN      (Looks  quickly  for  some  indication 
of  laughter  in  Nathaniel's  eyes) 
Yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

It's  a  tragedy,  isn't  it? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

In  ten  acts. 
JONATHAN 

There  may  be  only  eight. 

NATHANIEL 

Then  I  know  who  you  are!  (Jonathan  looks 
at  him  in  surprise)  You  are  the  celebrated 
dramatist,  Alexander  Jefferson,  Sr. 

JONATHAN 

Did  Aunt  Letitia  tell  you? 

NATHANIEL 

No,  sir.     I  read  it  on  the  billboards.      (Jona- 
108 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

than  laughs  with  a  catch  in  his  breath)      And  I 

should  like  to  attend  a  performance,  Mr.  Jef-  * 

ferson. 
JONATHAN 

It  isn't  finished  yet. 
NATHANIEL 

Well,  when  am  I  to  see  this  theatre? 

LETITIA 

Your  Uncle  Nathaniel  and  I  shall  come  to 
gether. 

JONATHAN 

You've  seen  all  the  plays. 

LETITIA 

That  doesn't  make  any  difference.     I'd  like  to 
see  them  again. 

[Jonathan  looks  at  her  to  be  sure  she  is  in  ear 
nest.     Then  he  smiles. 

JONATHAN 

I'll  finish  Zenobia  for  tomorrow. 

NATHANIEL 

Agreed !     Can  you  get  the  scenery  ready? 

JONATHAN 

I  painted  it  last  week. 

LETITIA 

You  must  have  the  orchestra,  too,  Jonathan. 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  ma'am.     Susan  has  some  new  pieces. 

NATHANIEL 

Is  Susan  the  orchestra? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

What  else  have  you  written? 
109 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

A  lot  of  plays,  sir.     Mother  and  I  used  to  write 
little  plays.     I  don't  write  many  any  more. 

NATHANIEL 
Why  not? 

JONATHAN 

I'm  getting  too  big. 

NATHANIEL 

.    Do  you  ever  write  anything  beside  plays? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

That's  splendid.     Stories? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,    sir.  .  .  .  And   I've   written  some   po  — 
poetry. 
NATHANIEL 

Excellent ! 

JONATHAN 

They're  not  very  good,  but  Susan  always  wants 
me  to  write  the  poetry  for  the  music. 
[Aunt    Letitia    has    repacked    the    trunk    and 
locked  it.     She  sees  that  Nathaniel  and  Jona 
than  are  getting  on  famously. 
LETITIA 

I'll  go  to  the  house  now  and  you  can  talk  to 
Jonathan,  Nathaniel. 

[Jonathan    looks    appealingly    at   Letitia)    but 
with  a  smile  she  goes  downstairs. 
Jonathan  and  Nathaniel  look  at  each  other  for 
an   embarrassed  minute,   then  Jonathan   takes 
refuge  at  his  theatre. 
NATHANIEL 

May  I  see  some  of  your  plays? 
no 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

Do  you  really  want  to  see  them? 

NATHANIEL 

Yes. 

[Jonathan  goes  to  a  box  on  the  piano  in  which 
there  are   many  manuscripts  carefully   bound. 
He  hands  one  to  Nathaniel. 
JONATHAN 

Here  is  one  that  mother  and  I  wrote.  She 
loved  the  theatre. 

NATHANIEL     (taking    the    strange-looking    little 
manuscript.     Reading:} 
"  Robin  Hood  and  His  Merry  Men." 

JONATHAN 

We  used  to  make  all  those  old  stories  into  plays. 

NATHANIEL 

Do  you  like  to  write? 

JONATHAN 

Oh,  yes.  I  wish  I  could  write  real  plays,  but 
there's  no  one  to  help  me  now.  My  mother 
used  to  correct  them  and  tell  me  what  was 
wrong.  She  knew  a  lot  about  the  theatre  and 
she  used  to  tell  me  all  sorts  of  things.  But  now 
Aunt  Letitia  doesn't  say  anything.  Sometimes 
she  comes  to  a  show,  but  she  can't  help  me. 
And  Uncle  John  doesn't  like  the  theatre.  He 
thinks  I'm  too  old  to  give  shows,  but  I  can't  help 
it.  There's  nothing  I  like  so  much. 

NATHANIEL 

May  I  read  this  some  time? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir.  .  .  Would  you  like  to  see  it  played? 

NATHANIEL 

I  want  to  see  them  all. 
in 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

Forty-one  of  them? 

NATHANIEL 

Forty-one  of  them !  Where  do  you  keep  them 
all? 

JONATHAN 

Here  in  this  box. 

[He  shows  all  the  manuscripts. 

NATHANIEL 

What  are  the  pink  ones? 

JONATHAN 

Those  are  the  ones  mother  liked  best  and 
these — (showing  blue  ones)  are  the  ones  I 
liked  best.  ...  I  like  them  all  now,  but  it  used 
to  be  lots  of  fun  to  choose  our  favorites. 

NATHANIEL 

What  is  this  one  that's  different  from  all  the 
rest? 

JONATHAN 

That's  one  that  mother  wrote  all  by  herself. 
It's  best  of  all. 

NATHANIEL 

You  must  save  these  carefully,  Jonathan  —  all 
your  life. 
JONATHAN 

Oh,  yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

Some  day  you  may  be  proud  of  them. 

JONATHAN 

See  —  she  wrote  this,  and  I  wrote  this.  I  was 
a  bad  writer,  wasn't  I? 

NATHANIEL 

What  do  you  want  to  do,  Jonathan? 

112 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

You  mean  what  do  I  want  to  be? 

NATHANIEL 

Yes. 

JONATHAN 

I  want  to  write  plays. 

NATHANIEL 

Is  that  all? 

JONATHAN 

Well,  I'd  like  to  run  a  theatre. 

NATHANIEL 

What  else? 

JONATHAN 

I'd  —  you  won't  tell  anyone,  will  you? 

NATHANIEL 

Of  course  not. 

JONATHAN 

You  see,  Uncle  John  wants  me  to  go  to  Somer 
set  School  to  study  engineering  and  learn  the 
business. 
NATHANIEL 

And  you  don't  want  to  —  Is  that  it? 

JONATHAN 

I'd  rather  be  a  writer. 

NATHANIEL 

They  say  you  can't  make  any  money  at  writing. 

JONATHAN 

That's  what  Uncle  John  says,  but  I  want  to  just 
the  same. 
NATHANIEL 

If  you  follow  John's  advice,  you'll  be  a  rich 
man. 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

I'd  rather  be  poor.     What  would  you  do,  Un 
cle  Nathaniel? 

NATHANIEL 

I  —  why  I'd  —  Oh,   come   now,   Jonathan  — 
you  know  John  is  the  head  of  the  Clay  family 
and  you  and  he  must  decide  this  question. 
JONATHAN 

Wouldn't  you  want  to  be  what  you  want  to  be? 

NATHANIEL 

Perhaps  I  should. 

JONATHAN 

I  don't  see  how  anyone  can  decide  what  you 
want  to  be  • —  no  matter  how  old  he  is. 

NATHANIEL 

Have  you  ever  talked  to  John? 

JONATHAN 

Oh,  yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

What  did  he  say? 

JONATHAN 

He  said  I  had  to  study  engineering  or  go  to 
work  in  the  factory  next  fall  for  good. 

NATHANIEL 

What  do  you  want  to  do? 

JONATHAN 

I  want  to  go  to  a  fine  prep  school  and  then  to 
college  and  then  — 

NATHANIEL 

Then  what? 

JONATHAN 

I  want  to  be  an  actor ! ! 

NATHANIEL 

I  see. 

114 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

Don't  tell  anybody. 
NATHANIEL 

I  won't.     That's  pretty  far  from  engineering, 
isn't  it? 
JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir.     But  everybody  can't  be  alike.     You 
and  Uncle  John  aren't  anything  alike. 

NATHANIEL 

And  we're  brothers,  too. 

JONATHAN 

Do  you  ever  get  all  mixed  up  and  don't  know 
what  to  do? 

NATHANIEL 

Oh,  yes.     I  think  everybody  does. 

JONATHAN 

What  do  you  do  then? 

NATHANIEL 

I  do  something  very  silly. 
JONATHAN 

Do  you  do  silly  things,  too? 
NATHANIEL 

Yes.     I'm  afraid  I  do. 

JONATHAN 

What  do  you  do  when  you  get  all  mixed  up  ? 

NATHANIEL 

I'll  tell  you  —  it  might  not  work  with  every 
body,  you  know  —  but  it  works  with  me. 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir! 

NATHANIEL 

My  mother  used  to  sing  me  a  song  called  — 

'  There  is  a  green  hill  far  away."     I  always 

liked  that  song  because  it  gave  me  a  feeling  of 


j 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

contentment  and  happiness.  I  imagined  that  I 
could  see  that  hill  with  its  pleasant  green  slopes 
and  at  its  foot  lay  a  little  cottage  all  cool  and 
pleasant  and  open  to  the  winds.  There  were 
no  locks  and  bolts  to  keep  one  out  or  to  keep  one 
in.  I  used  to  imagine  that  I  was  climbing  that 
hill  to  the  top  of  the  world  and  when  I  reached 
the  summit  I  could  see  — 
JONATHAN  (enthralled) 

I  know  —  the  whole  wide  world. 

NATHANIEL 

Its  very  bigness  made  me  happy  in  my  imag 
ination.  .  .  .  Then  when  I  grew  up  and  heavy 
troubles  came  to  me  I  remembered  the  Green 
Hill  Far  Away  and  one  day  I  found  such  a  hill 
and  I  climbed  it  —  clear  to  the  top  —  and  there 
below  me  lay  the  world  —  the  whole  wide 
world  —  and  I  told  the  world  something  then 
and  felt  the  better  for  it.  ...  Jonathan,  there 
is  nothing  like  a  hill-top  to  make  a  man  feel 
worth  while. 

JONATHAN 

I  know  what  you  mean.  .  .  .  But  I  always  want 
to  jump  when  I  look  down  from  any  place,  do 
you? 

NATHANIEL 

I  suppose  everybody  does. 

JONATHAN 

Uncle  John  thinks  every  boy  ought  to  be  alike. 

NATHANIEL 

Many  schools  used  to  think  that  way. 

JONATHAN 

But  boys  don't  all  think  the  same.     They're  dif- 
116 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

ferent  just  like  men,  only  they  don't  know  so 
much. 

NATHANIEL 

Perhaps  not. 

JONATHAN 

Uncle  John  won't  let  me  put  on  long  pants  until 
I'm  fifteen. 
NATHANIEL 

He  let  me  put  them  on  when  I  was  fifteen,  too. 

JONATHAN 

Were  you  as  tall  as  I  am? 

NATHANIEL 

Just  about  the  same  height,  but  my  legs  were 
like  pipe  stems  and  I  was  very  much  ashamed. 

JONATHAN 

So  am  I. 

NATHANIEL 

You'll  forget  all  about  it  after  you're  fifteen. 

JONATHAN 

I  can  talk  to  you  like  I  used  to  talk  to  my 
mother. 
NATHANIEL 

Thank  you.     We're  going  to  be  fine  friends, 
aren't  we? 

JONATHAN 

You  bet.     Is  it  silly  for  me  to  like  to  write 
plays  ? 
NATHANIEL 

Why  do  you  ask  that? 

JONATHAN 

Because  Uncle  John  says  it's  silly. 

NATHANIEL 

Well,  it  all  depends  upon  the  way  you  look  at  it, 
117 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

Jonathan.  The  world  has  never  been  able  to 
agree  as  to  what  is  and  what  is  not  silly.  Mr. 
Browning,  the  poet,  might  have  considered 
hooks  and  eyes  the  silliest  things  in  the  world; 
but  to  Mr.  de  Long,  they  were,  no  doubt,  the 
.most  important  things  in  the  world.  Many 
men  agree  with  Mr.  Browning  and  many  ladies 
agree  with  Mr.  de  Long. 

JONATHAN 

That's  what  I  think. 

NATHANIEL 

You  and  I  probably  have  many  thoughts  in 
common. 

[Susan  and  Mile.  Perrault  enter.  Mile.  Per- 
rault  is  a  Frenchwoman  of  exquisite  grace  and 
poise.  She  speaks  English  fluently,  but  with  a 
charming  accent  and  an  occasional  Gallic  phrase 
larding  her  pleasant  sentences.  Her  entrance 
into  the  room  is  electric.  She  has  already  won 
Susan. 
MLLE.  PERRAULT 

Ah,  there  you  are,  Mr.  Nathaniel  Clay.  I  met 
la  belle  Susanne  in  the  roadway  and  she  told 
me  you  were  in  the  lumber  room  in  the  carriage 
house  and  I  say  to  her,  "  We  shall  track  him  to 
his  lair."  Besides,  I  want  to  see  what  a  lum 
ber  room  is. 
NATHANIEL 

I  was  hiding  from  you. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Villain!  And  this  is  Jonathan.  How  do  you 
do?  Susanne  tells  me  you  write  poetry  and  she 
writes  music  and  she  promise  me  that  you  will 
sing  for  me. 

118 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 
I  can't  sing. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Ah !  Susanne  tell  me  you  have  a  theatre  and 
you  write  plays  and  paint  scenery  and  write  poe 
try  and  sing  songs  and  she  say  if  I  come  here 
to  the  lumber  room  in  the  carriage  house  you 
will  play  me  a  tragedy  and  sing  me  a  song. 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  ma'am. 

NATHANIEL 

Having  introduced  yourself  to  everybody,  will 
you  tell  me,  Susan,  how  Mile.  Perrault  learned 
so  much  in  such  a  little  time? 
SUSAN 

Well,  I  was  waiting  for  Jonathan  to  call  me. 

JONATHAN 

Oh,  I  forgot. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

She  was  sitting  like  a  little  fairy  in  the  grass 
by  the  roadway,  and  I  stop  my  car  and  ask  for 
Mr.  Nathaniel  Clay  and  she  say  you  are  here  in 
the  lumber  room  in  the  carriage  house  and  she 
tell  me  many  things  —  because  we  like  each 
other  very,  very  much  and  we  walk  very,  very 
slowly. 

NATHANIEL 

Now!  Now  that  you  know  all  about  Miss 
Susan  Sample  and  Mr.  Jonathan — (He  real 
izes  he  doesn't  know  Jonathan's  second  name) 
I  think  I  shall  introduce  you  by  your  pen  name, 
Jonathan  —  Mr.  Alexander  Jefferson,  Sr. 
(To  Mile.  Perrault) 

I  am  going  to  let  them  know  about  you.     This, 
119 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

lady  and  gentleman,  is  Mile.  Marthe  Perrault 
of  Paris,  France.  Mile.  Perrault,  may  I  pre 
sent  my  friend  Susan  and  my  nephew  Jonathan? 

MLLE.  PERRAULT  (falling  into  the  mood) 

I  am  very,  very  pleased  to  see  you  again,  Miss 
Sample.  It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  have  the 
honor  of  meeting  you,  Mr.  Alexander  Jeffer 
son,  Sr.  I  am  looking  forward  to  the  premiere 
of  your  great  tragedy,  Zenobia,  of  which  Miss 
Sample  has  been  telling  me. 

SUSAN      (Puts  her  arms  about  Mile.  Perrault  and 
Jonathan  is  uncertain  whether  to  be  happy  or 
afraid) 
He  wrote  lots  of  others,  too. 

JONATHAN 

Forty-one. 

NATHANIEL 

I  think  I'll  tell  you  two  a  secret.  (Susan  pricks 
up  her  ears)  Do  you  like  secrets? 

SUSAN 

Yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

And  can  you  keep  them? 
SUSAN 

Oh,  yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

Well,  some  day  Mile.  Perrault  is  going  to  be 

my  wife. 

[He  kisses  Mile.  Perrault' s  hand. 

Mile.  Perrault  shows  her  engagement  ring. 

SUSAN 

When? 

NATHANIEL 

Very  soon.     She  is  here  on  some  war  work  and 
120 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

when  she  and  her  father  go  back  to  France  I 
shall  follow  and  we  shall  be  married. 

SUSAN 

Ooh  — 

NATHANIEL 

Now  you  mustn't  tell. 

SUSAN 

Honest. 

JONATHAN 

No,  sir! 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Now,  we  have  a  secret.     And  you  are  going  to 
sing  me  a  little. song. 

SUSAN 

Come  on,  Jona'than.     Let's  do  the  new  one. 

JONATHAN 

Well,  I'll  try. 

[He  is  quite  miserable  with  stage-fright. 

Susan   sits   at   the   piano    and   plays   a   chord. 

Then  Jonathan  begins  to  sirg  with  much  fear 

in  his  voice. 
JONATHAN  (singing] 

All  on  a  summer's  day, 

With  flowers  by  the  way, 

A  fair  young  prince  and  his  purple  knight 

Found  a  princess  at  her  play. 

So  by  the  crescent  moon 

He  asked  a  royal  boon 

And  sat  him  down  on  a  soft  green  knoll  — 

And  the  night-time  came  too  soon. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Oh,   that  is  just  like   a   little   French  peasant 
song!     How  does  it  go? 
La  —  la  —  la  —  la  —  la  —  la. 
121 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

[Susan  begins  to  play  it  again. 
Jonathan  sings  more  surely  than  before. 
Slowly  Mile.  Perrault  falls  into  the  rhythm  and 
very   simply   dances   a   little  peasant  dance   to 
Jonathan's  and  Susan's  song.      The  two  young 
sters  are  in  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight. 
So  —  when  one  is  very  happy  or  very  sad,  he 
makes  a  song  and  when  he's  very,  very  happy, 
he  dances.     And  when  he  is  very,  very,  very 
unhappy  he  dies.     You  see,  /  am  very,  very 
happy.     When  do  you  play  Zenobia,  Mr.  Jef 
ferson,  Sr.  ? 
JONATHAN 

I'll  have  it  ready  tomorrow,  maybe  tonight. 

NATHANIEL 

We  shall  have  a  season  ticket.  But  now,  I 
want  you  to  meet  my  blessed  Aunt  Letitia.  She 
hasn't  changed  one  bit  in  all  these  years. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

To  Aunt  Letitia   then.     Good-bye,   Jonathan. 
Tomorrow  is  the  day  of  the  great  premiere. 
JONATHAN  (awkwardly) 
Thanks. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

And  la  belle  petite  Susanne,  au  revoir. 

SUSAN 

I'll  walk  with  you  part  of  the  way. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Very  well.     Marchons,  marchons.  .  .  . 
[  They  go  out. 

NATHANIEL  (holding  back  a  little) 
Good-bye,  Mr.  Manager. 
[He  goes  out  calling  "  Marthe." 
Jonathan  is  left  alone  in  his  joy.     As  he  stands, 
122 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

a  strange,  aimless,  'vacuous  whistling  is  heard 
outside  the  window  as  though  from  one  am 
bling  by.  Jonathan  hears  it  unconsciously, 
moves  to  put  his  plays  away,  alternately  whis 
tling  and  singing  "  All  on  a  summer's  day." 
Presently  the  whistling  of  the  strange  air  is 
heard  as  though  coming  from  downstairs.  It 
stops  and  a  voice  calls  out  "Hi !  " 

JONATHAN 

Who  is  it? 
VOICE 

It's  me. 

JONATHAN 

What  do  you  want? 

[By  this  time  the  Voice  has  become  a  person  in 
the  shape  of  Hank,  one  of  the  scum  of  creation 
who  asks  nothing  of  life  and  gives  nothing.  He 
was  born  of  woman  and  he  grew  into  man's 
form,  but  one  looking  at  him  wonders  how  he 
survived  dirt  and  the  mere  effort  of  breathing. 
He  is  stoutish  with  no  marked  coloring  unless 
it  be  a  cross  between  khaki  and  field-gray. 
Weather  and  time  have  conspired  to  render  him 
inconspicuous.  When  he  speaks  his  voice  is 
produced  with  a  careful  effort  to  conserve  en 
ergy.  When  he  walks  it  seems  to  be  a  move 
ment  in  answer  to  prayer  rather  than  a  physical 
fact. 

HANK 
Say  — 

JONATHAN 

How'd  you  get  in  here? 

HANK 

Well,  it's  this  way,  you  see.    The  gate  was  open 
123 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

out  there  and  this  looked  pretty  fine  to  me  so  I 
come  in. 
JONATHAN 

You'd  better  go  away  before  my  uncle  sees  you. 
HANK 

Look  here,  young  feller,  I  ain't  goin'  a-do  no 

harm. 
JONATHAN 

Well,  he  doesn't  allow  strangers  on"  the  place. 
HANK 

I  jus'  come  in  to  ask  if  I  could  sleep  somewhere 
around  here  if  I  worked  for  my  sleep  and 
grub. 

JONATHAN 

No,  he  won't  let  you. 

HANK 

How  do  you  know  he  won't? 

JONATHAN 

'Cause  it's  a  rule. 

[Hank  whistles  a  snatch  of  the  strange  air  and 
sits  down. 
HANK 

Where's  your  pa? 

JONATHAN 

He's  dead. 

HANK 

Long? 

JONATHAN 

Ten  years  ago. 

HANK 

How  old  are  you? 

JONATHAN 

Fourteen. 

124 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

HANK 

Your  pa   died  when  you  were  four.     So  did 
mine. 
JONATHAN 

Did  you  ever  have  an  uncle? 

HANK 

How  many  you  got? 

JONATHAN 

I  got  two  living  and  one  dead. 

HANK 

All  three  of  mine's  dead. 

[He  whistles  a  snatch  of  the  strange  air  and 

takes  a  chew  of  tobacco. 

Where's  your  ma? 
JONATHAN      (Is  about  to  become  impatient,  but 

an  innate  tolerance  causes  him  to  answer) 

She  died  when  I  was  twelve. 
HANK 

So  did  mine.      (Whistles)      We're  alike  in  lots 

of  ways,  ain't  we? 

JONATHAN 

What  did  you  do  when  your  mother  died? 

HANK 

I  felt  pretty  sorry. 

JONATHAN 

Did  your  brothers  and  sisters  help  you  any? 
HANK 

Have  you  any  brothers  and  sisters? 

JONATHAN 

No  — 

HANK 

Me    neither.      (Whistles    casually)      No    one 
took  no  notice  of  me. 

125 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

What'd  you  do? 

HANK 

I  went  away. 

JONATHAN 

Why  didn't  you  try  to  work? 

HANK 

Couldn't  find  nothing  suitable.  'T  first  I  felt 
sort  o'  worried  an'  then  I  kep'  walkin'  on  and 
I  seen  so  much  trouble  where  I  went  I  says  to 
myself,  "  Hank,  you're  lucky,"  I  says.  "  You 
ain't  got  no  fam'ly  to  bother  you  an'  you  ain't 
got  nothing  to  worry  you  an'  you  don't  have  to 
get  no  place  in  partic'lar  and  you  don't  have  to 
stay  no  place.  A  man  wot's  got  a  wife's  all  the 
time  worrying  about  her  health  or  her  money 
spendin'  or  her  gaddin'  or  her  naggin'.  An'  a 
man  w'ots  got  a  fam'ly's  always  wondering 
where  they'll  end.  An'  a  man's  wot's  got  a 
home's  all  time  worrying  about  keepin'  it  locked 
up.  I  bet  the  poor  nut  wot  owns  this  place 
can't  breathe  easy  for  bein'  scared  things'll  be 
took  or  burnt  up.  W'y  you  —  look  at  you  — 
(Whistles)  You're  wishin'  I'd  go  'cause 
you're  'fraid  I'll  take  somethin'.  I  won't  take 
nothin',  young  feller,  'cause  I  don't  need 
nothin'  now  and  I  won't  need  nothin'  till  it's  cold 
again  —  and  then  I'll  git  an  overcoat  maybe. 
It's  too  much  trouble  takin'  things  —  'cause  you 
have  to  carry  'em.  (Whistles)  You  goin'  to 
let  me  sleep  here  some  place? 
JONATHAN 

I    can't.     My   uncle    would    drive    you    away. 
Maybe  he'd  have  you  arrested. 
126 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

HANK 

I  ain't  done  nothin'.     I  ain't  hurtin'  nobody. 

JONATHAN 

Well,  he  doesn't  allow  strangers  around. 
HANK      (Whistles.     At  the  window) 
That's  where  I  went  by  jus'  now. 

JONATHAN 

I  heard  you  whistling. 

HANK 

That's  a  tune  I  made  up  once.      (Whistles) 

JONATHAN 

Do  you  make  up  tunes? 

HANK 

That's  the  only  one  I  ever  done.     It  comes  in 
handy  and  it  don't  hurt  no  one. 
[Jonathan    unconsciously    tries    to    whistle    a 
'phrase  of  the  tune. 
HANK 

No,  that  ain't  it.     It's  this  way. 
[Whistles. 

Jonathan  tries  it  again  and  fails. 
No.     Here. 

Jonathan  makes  it  this  time. 
HANK 

That's  it.     Say,  what  you  got  these  bars  for? 
It's  like  jail.     Are  they  afraid  you'll  jump  out 
on  them  rocks? 
JONATHAN 

No,  I  guess  not.     There  isn't  much  danger  of 
my  wanting  to  jump  out. 

HANK 

You  never  can  tell  for  sure,  young  feller. 

JONATHAN 

It's  to  keep  people  from  climbing  in. 
127 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

HANK 

There  ain't  no  bars  over  that  one.  (Pointing 
to  gable  window) 

JONATHAN 

That's  too  high. 

HANK 

It'd   be   like    fallin'    off   the   top    of   a   house, 

wouldn't  it? 

[Whistles. 

Jonathan  whistles  "  All  on  a  Summer's  Day." 

HANK 

What  you  got  there? 

JONATHAN 

That's  my  theatre. 

HANK 

A  show? 

JONATHAN 

Yes. 

HANK 

How  does  it  work? 

JONATHAN 

These  are  the  actors. 

HANK 

What's  the  string  fer? 

JONATHAN 

You  put  him  in  a  groove  and  pull  him. 

HANK 

Lemme  see  it. 

JONATHAN 

All  right.  I'll  show  you  a  scene  from  the  play 
I'm  going  to  play  for  my  Uncle  Nathaniel  to 
morrow. 

HANK 

Fire  away. 

128 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

[Jonathan  lights  the  lamps  that  are  back  of  the 
screen  and  pulls  the  blinds  or  some  cover  over 
the  barred  windows. 

HANK 

I  wouldn't  have  all  this  junk  if  you'd  give  it  to 
me.  No,  sir,  when  I  move  I  carry  my  house 
with  me  and  there  ain't  much  o'  that  now.  (In 
dicates  his  clothes] 

JONATHAN 

All  ready.     Now  you  sit  there. 

[Places  Hank  on  the  bench. 

He  goes  behind  the  screen  and  taps  some  bells. 

HANK 

What's  that  fer? 

JONATHAN 

That's  to  get  ready. 

HANK 

Well,  I'm  ready. 

[Jonathan   opens   the  curtain  and  discloses  a 

scene  from  Z/enobia. 

That's  beautiful.     It's  just  like  real. 

[Jonathan  pulls  a  figure  across  the  stage. 

Hello,  old  man.     That's  the  one  I  jus'  seen. 

Where's  the  string? 

[Jonathan  lifts  the  string. 

JONATHAN 

Here  it  is. 

HANK 

Now  where's  that  feller  goin'  to? 
JONATHAN  (coming  out  from  behind  the  screen] 
Well,  you  see,  Zenobia  — 

HANK 

Zenob  —  God,  what  a  name! 
129 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

They  used  to  have  names  like  that. 
HANK 

How  d'  you  do  it? 

JONATHAN 

Look,  I'll  show  you  a  little. 
[He  goes  behind  the  screen  and  closes  the  cur 
tain. 
HANK 

What  you  doin'  that  for?     I  like  to  see  that 
picture. 

JONATHAN 

I'm  going  to  show  you  how  I  do  it. 

[Jonathan  rings  the  bells. 
HANK 

All  right.     I'm  ready.     Let  her  go. 

[Jonathan  opens  the  curtain  and  pulls  a  charac 
ter  on,  then  another. 
JONATHAN  (in  assumed  voice) 

"  Hail,  noble  duke." 

"  All  is  well,  I  ween." 

HANK 

Say,  are  they  talkin'  to  each  other? 

JONATHAN 

Yes. 

HANK 

Which  is  the  noble  duke  ? 
JONATHAN  (pulling  a  string) 
This  one. 

HANK 

And  the  other  one's  name  is  Iween,  ain't  it? 

JONATHAN 

No,  his  name  is  Rollo. 

130 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

HANK 

All  right,  fire  ahead.     I  guess  you  know  what 
you're  doing. 

JONATHAN  (in  assumed  voice) 
"  Hail,  noble  duke." 
"  All  is  well,  I  ween." 
"  Not  very  well,  noble  duke." 
'What  is  wrong?" 

"  Queen  Zenobia  is  very  mad,  noble  duke." 
"  What  is  she  mad  about,  Rollo?  " 
[Uncle  John  enters  suddenly. 

JOHN 

Jonathan  — 
[He  sees  Hank. 
What  does  this  mean? 

HANK 

I'm  seein'  a  show. 

JOHN 

You  get  out  of  here  this  instant. 
HANK 

I  ain't  hurtin'  nothin',  mister,  but  I'll  git  out  if 

you  say  so. 
JOHN 

What  do  you  mean  by  this,  Jonathan? 
HANK 

I'll  git  out.     Thank  you  fer  the  show,  boy. 

[He  goes  out  whistling. 

John  crosses  to  the  door. 
JOHN  (calling  after  Hank) 

Come  on,  get  out  of  here  quickly. 

HANK  (off) 

I'm  out,  mister. 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JOHN 

Now,  Jonathan,  what  do  you  mean  by  bringing 
such  people  into  this  place? 

JONATHAN 

I  didn't  bring  him  in.     He  came  up  while  I  was 
working. 
JOHN 

Do  you  call  that  silly  stuff  working? 

JONATHAN 

I  was  getting  it  ready  for  Uncle  Nathaniel. 

JOHN 

He's  been  putting  that  nonsense  in  your  head, 
has  he? 

JONATHAN 

He  asked  me  to  let  him  see  all  my  plays. 

JOHN 

I  suppose  he  told  you  to  ask  that  dirty  tramp  in 

here. 
JONATHAN 

No,  sir.     He  didn't  see  the  tramp. 

[Hank  is  heard  whistling. 

John  crosses  to  one  of  the  windows  and  opens 

it. 
JOHN  (calling] 

You  get  away  from  there.      Move  on. 
HANK'S  VOICE 

I  guess  the  roadside's  free,  mister. 

JOHN 

We'll  see  about  that. 
[Hank  whistles. 

JOHN 

Jonathan,  I  won't  have  you  waste  your  time  on 
this  stuff.     I've  been  pretty  lenient  with  you  and 
I've   allowed  you   to  keep   your   toys  because 
132 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

Emily  spoiled  you;  but  you're  too  big  for  such 
things  and  I'm  going  to  put  my  foot  down  right 
now.  I'm  not  going  to  have  this  silly  stuff 
around. 

JONATHAN 

Uncle  Nathaniel  doesn't  think  it's  silly. 
JOHN 

I'll  decide  what  is  and  is  not  good  for  you. 

JONATHAN 

The  same  thing  isn't  good  for  everybody. 
JOHN 

Don't  talk  back  to  me,  young  man. 

JONATHAN 

I've  got  a  right  to  think. 
JOHN 

Jonathan! 

JONATHAN 

If  my  mother  was  living,  she  wouldn't  call 
everything  I  like  to  do  silly. 

JOHN 

Your  mother  didn't  know  what  was  good  for 
you. 

JONATHAN 

My  mother  was  the  best  woman  in  the  world. 
JOHN 

That  will  do,  Jonathan.     Your  mother  was  my 
sister  and  I  am  not  saying  anything  against  her. 
But  I  do  say  that  stuff  must  go. 
[He  starts  for  the  door. 

JONATHAN 

If  this  theatre  goes,  I  go,  too.     I'm  not  — 
[John  walks  over  to  the  theatre  and  sweeps  the 
whole  structure  onto  the  floor. 
133 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JOHN 

Now. 

JONATHAN 

You  dirty  coward,  you  — 

[John  turns  upon  the  boy  and  strikes  him  across 

the  face. 

In  mingled  rage  and  humiliation  Jonathan  sobs 

wildly  once  or  twice,  then  controls  himself  and 

glares  violently  at  his  uncle. 
JOHN 

I'll  let  you  think  about  it.     I'll  leave  you  here 

with  your  toys  like  a  girl-baby. 

[He  goes  out  the  door,  closing  it  and  turning 

the  key  in  the  lock. 

Jonathan  runs  to  the  door. 
JONATHAN 

You  let  me  out  of  here !     You  let  me  out  of 
herd 

[He  pounds  the  door  with  his  fists. 
Then  he  turns  in  despair  and  humiliation. 
He  paces  the  floor  a  moment,  not  knowing  what 
to  do.  Suddenly  Hank's  whistle  is  heard.  The 
boy  listens  as  though  fascinated  and  goes  to  the 
window  and  watches  Hank.  Jonathan  goes  to 
his  wrecked  theatre  and,  taking  it  up,  piles  his 
manuscripts,  the  pink  and  the  blue,  on  it.  He 
hesitates  to  include  one  in  the  pile,  offering  once 
or  twice  to  put  it  in  his  pocket,  but  he  finally 
places  it  in  grim  determination  with  the  others. 
Then  he  takes  it  of  and  stuffs  it  in  his  pocket. 
He  stuffs  the  pile  in  the  stove  and  sets  a  match 
to  it,  watches  it  a  moment,  then  writes  on  a 
piece  of  paper,  fastens  it  to  the  door.  Then 
he  finds  a  piece  of  rope  on  a  packing  case, 
134 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

moves  the  ladder  under  the  gable  window,  fas 
tens  the  rope  to  a  peg  in  the  wall,  climbs  the 
ladder,  considers  a  moment,  returns  to  the  stove 
with  the  beloved  manuscript,  stuff s  it  in  the  fire, 
remounts  the  ladder  and  lets  his  weight  onto 
the  rope.  As  he  disappears  from  view,  the 
rope  breaks  and  a  cry  and  sound  of  falling  are 
heard. 

The  flames  from  the  burning  theatre  and  manu 
scripts  flicker  against  the  wall  for  a  silent  mo 
ment. 

The  key  is  heard  to  turn  in  the  lock  and  John 
and  Nathaniel  enter. 
JOHN 

Jonathan ! 

NATHANIEL 

He's  hiding. 
JOHN 

Jonathan ! 
NATHANIEL      (Sees  paper  on  door) 

What's  this? 

JOHN 

What  does  it  say? 

NATHANIEL 

"  Good-bye!  .  .  .  Jonathan." 
JOHN      (Looks  suspiciously  at  Nathaniel) 

Did  you  tell  the  silly  boy  about  your  running 
away? 

NATHANIEL 

I  told  Jonathan  nothing  about  myself.     You 
are  the  head  of  the  Clay  family  and  out  of  cus 
tom   I  respected  your  position;  but,  by  God, 
John,  you're  a  failure  with  this  boy. 
135 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JOHN 

He  — 

[Hank  enters  carrying  Jonathan  in  his  arms. 
Jonathan  is  limp  and  pitiful.     His  clothes  are 
torn.     He  is  moaning  pitifully. 

HANK 

He  fell  on  the  rocks  out  there. 

NATHANIEL 

Put  him  over  here. 

[Hank  places  Jonathan  on  the  bench  near  the 
piano.  Nathaniel  places  the  costume,  which 
Susan  left  there ,  under  his  head  for  a  pillow. 

JOHN 

What  was  he  doing? 
HANK 

He  was  — 

NATHANIEL 

This  is  no  time  for  questions,  John.  Call  a 
doctor. 

[Jonathan  moans  and  rolls  his  head,  looking 
vacantly  at  Hank  now  and  then. 
JONATHAN  (moaning) 

Good-bye.   .   .   .  Jonathan. 

JOHN 

We'd  better  take  him  in  the  house. 

JONATHAN 

My  mother  was  the  best  woman  — 

NATHANIEL 

He'd  better  stay  here  until  the  doctor  comes. 
[John  exits. 

JONATHAN 

All  on  a  summer's  day  — 

[All  the  time  Nathaniel  has  been  passing  his 

hands  over  Jonathan. 

136 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

HANK 

He's  out  of  his  head,  ain't  he? 

NATHANIEL 

Perhaps,  but  sometimes  one's  heart  speaks  in 
a  delirium. 

HANK 

He  acts  like  his  back's  broke. 

NATHANIEL 

My  God  —  his  back ! 
[Touches  the  boy's  back. 
Jonathan  winces  with  pain. 

JONATHAN 

My  back's  broken,  Hank. 

HANK 

Listen,  he's  saying  my  name.     We  wuz  pals, 
sure  nuff. 

JONATHAN 

My  back's  broken,  Hank. 


Curtain. 


137 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 


ACT  II 

Six  years  have  elapsed  since  Act  I  as  years  elapse  in  a  boy's 
imaginings. 

Throughout  this  act  the  characters  are  disclosed  without  reason 
as  in  a  dream;  and  the  movement  of  the  act  represents  four 
terrors  of  a  delirium  —  anxious  effort  to  make  oneself  known,  a 
feeling  of  fetters,  climbing  and  a  sudden  fall. 

JONATHAN  BUILDS  A  FEAR 

[Before  the  curtain  rises  the  voices  of  Jona 
than,  Hank,  Nathaniel  and  John  are  heard, 
muffled  and  far  away. 
HANK 

He  fell  on  the  rocks  out  there. 

NATHANIEL 

Put  him  over  here. 

JOHN 

What  was  he  doing? 

HANK 

He  was  — 

NATHANIEL 

This  is  no  time  for  questions,  John.     Call  a 
doctor. 

JONATHAN 

Good-bye.  .  .  .  Jonathan. 

JOHN 

We'd  better  take  him  in  the  house. 

JONATHAN 

My  mother  was  the  best  woman  — 

NATHANIEL 

He'd  better  stay  here  until  the  doctor  comes. 
139 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

All  on  a  summer's  day  — 

HANK 

He's  out  of  his  head,  ain't  he? 

NATHANIEL 

Perhaps,  but  sometimes  one's  heart  speaks  in  a 
delirium. 

HANK 

He  acts  like  his  back's  broke. 

NATHANIEL 

My  God  —  his  back! 

JONATHAN 

My  back's  broken,  Hank. 
HANK 

Listen,  he's  saying  my  name.     We  wuz  pals, 
sure  nuff. 

JONATHAN 

My  back's  broken,  Hank. 
[The  curtain  has  risen  unnoticed. 
A  faint  light  that  grows  steadily   brighter  as 
light  does  when  one  comes  out  of  a  swoon  dis 
closes  Jonathan  and  Hank  seated  on  a  log  at 
the  left  of  the  stage,  where  the  bench  had  been. 
Jonathan  seems  much  older,  and  he  is  crooked 
and  dirty  and  unkempt,  and  Hank  is  somewhat 
brutalised,  less  negative. 

JONATHAN 

My  back's  broken,  Hank. 
\_Hank  looks  at  him. 
Tired? 

HANK 

Sure.  .  .  . 

140 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

I  think  Uncle  Nathaniel  would  help  me  if  he 
saw  me. 
HANK 

He   couldn't   do   nothin'    for  you.     You  can't 
straighten  a  crooked  back.   .   .   . 

JONATHAN 

Hank,  I'm  tired  of  this  and  I'm  going  back. 
HANK 

Going  back  where? 

JONATHAN 

I'm  going  back  home. 

HANK 

Your  Uncle  John  won't  let  you  in. 
JONATHAN 

Uncle  Nathaniel  will  take  me  in. 
HANK 

He  ain't  there  no  more  and  besides  he  won't 
know  you. 

JONATHAN 

Honest  —  don't  you  think  he  would? 

HANK 

Sure,  he  wouldn't. 

JONATHAN 

I  wish  I  hadn't  run  away. 

HANK 

If  you  don't  quit  wishing  I'll  run  away  from 
you. 

JONATHAN 

You  wouldn't  leave  me,  would  you,  Hank? 

HANK 

Sure,  I'd  leave  you.  .   .  .  What  do  you  think  I 
am  —  a  wishing  stone?  ...   I  want  peace,  I 
141 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

do.  .  .  .  An'  your  wishing's  disturbing  my 
peace.  .  .  .  Every  day  fer  six  years  you  squeal 
about  what  you  done.  .  .  .  Your  Uncle  John 
swatted  you  and  you  burned  your  theatre  things 
and  jumped  out  o'  the  window  and  broke  your 
back  and  I  saved  you.  .  .  . 

JONATHAN 

I  can't  do  anything  with  a  broken  back! 
HANK 

What  do  you  want  to  do  anything  for? 

JONATHAN 

Sometimes  I'd  like  to  write  a  little. 
HANK 

Go  ahead.  .   .  .   I'll  wait  for  you. 

JONATHAN 

And  I'd  like  to  give  a  show.  You  know,  Hank, 
I  used  to  want  to  be  an  actor.  .  .  . 

HANK 

Sure,  all  kids  want  to  be  actors  or  go  in  a  circus 
or  do   something  where   a   lot   o'   people   are 
lookin'  on. 
JONATHAN 

But  I  can't  be  an  actor  now,  because  nobody'd 
want  to  look  at  me. 
HANK 

You  act  like  that  hump's  ruined  your  life,  when 
all  you  got  to  do's  crouch  over  a  little  more 
and  look  sad  and  you  can  get  anything 
you  want.  Why,  it's  money  in  your  pocket, 
that's  what  that  hump  is;  it's  money  in  your 
pocket. 

[He  closes  the  conversation  by  whistling. 
Say,  go  on  over  to  that  house  and  get  us  some 
thing  to  eat. 

142 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

[Jonathan  prepares  for  the  quest  and  Hank 
rolls  over  to  go  to  sleep. 

As  Jonathan  crosses,  lights  disclose  a  hill  with 
pleasant  green  slopes.  At  its  foot  stands  a 
little  cottage }  all  cool  and  pleasant  with  great 
glass  doors.  There  are  no  locks  and  bolts  to 
keep  one  out  or  to  keep  one  in.  A  high  plas 
ter  and  brick  wall  flanks  the  cottage. 
As  Jonathan  nears  the  cottage  he  meets  Uncle 
John,  whose  austerity  is  more  apparent  than 
ever. 

Jonathan  cowers  a  moment,  then  attempts  to 
smile. 
JONATHAN 

Hank  said  you'd  turn  me  away  if  I  came  back. 

JOHN 

Were  you  talking  to  me,  boy? 

JONATHAN 

I'm  so  sorry  I  ran  away,  Uncle  John. 

JOHN 

Uncle  John  ? 

JONATHAN 

Don't  you  know  me,  Sir? 

JOHN 

Indeed  I  do  not. 

JONATHAN 

I'm  Jonathan  — 

JOHN 

Jonathan !  My  nephew  Jonathan?  —  Ha  ! 
Ha! 

JONATHAN 

Don't  you  remember  I  didn't  want  to  study  en 
gineering  —  I  didn't  want  to  go  to  Somerset 
School? 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JOHN 

Where  is  Jonathan? 

JONATHAN 

I'm  Jonathan,  sir.  You  remember  I  jumped 
out  of  the  window  and  I  tried  to  run  away. 

JOHN 

You  seem  to  know  a  lot  about  it.  Where  is 
Jonathan? 

JONATHAN 

I  tell  you  I  am  Jonathan.  .  .  .  Don't  you  re 
member  you  struck  me  —  You  struck  me  across 
the  face  —  that's  what  made  me  run  away. 

JOHN 

I  should  have  whipped  him  and  put  him  to  bed. 

JONATHAN 

I  would  have  run  away  just  the  same,  Uncle 
John. 
JOHN 

Don't  call  me  Uncle  John ! 

JONATHAN 

But  you  are  my  Uncle  John. 

JOHN 

I  ask  you  where  is  Jonathan. 

JONATHAN 

Would  you  like  to  see  him  ? 
JOHN 

I  should  like  to  know  what  has  become  of  him. 

JONATHAN 

Would  you  let  him  come  back  home? 

JOHN 

No.  When  he  ran  away,  I  cast  him  out  for 
ever. 

JONATHAN 

Couldn't  you  forgive  him  if  he  was  very,  very 
144 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

sorry  for  what  he  had  done?  .  .  .  Couldn't 
you  forgive  me,  sir?  ...  I  am  Jonathan. 
Honest  I  am  Jonathan. 

JOHN 

Don't  try  to  deceive  me.  Jonathan  was  im 
pudent  as  you  are;  but  he  was  a  Clay:  he  was 
straight  and  fine. 

JONATHAN 

But  I  broke  my  back. 

JOHN 

Tell  me  where  Jonathan  is,  you  imposter. 

[He  takes  Jonathan  by  the  arm  and  twists  it 

brutally. 

Tell  me.  .  .  .  Tell  me. 
JONATHAN 

I  don't  know.  .  .  .  Let  me  go.  ...  I'm  not 

Jonathan. 
JOHN 

Tell  me.  ... 
JONATHAN  (in  desperation) 

He's  dead. 

JOHN 

What! 

JONATHAN 

He's  dead.     He  died  somewhere. 

JOHN 

And  so  you  tried  to  palm  yourself  off  as  Jona 
than. 

JONATHAN 

I'm  sorry. 

JOHN 

Don't  you  know  you  can't  make  your  way  with 
lies? 

145 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir. 

JOHN 

You  ought  to  be  whipped,  but  I  suppose  you 
don't  know  any  better.     I  should  have  you  ar 
rested  for  vagrancy. 
[Jonathan  winces. 

But  I  won't.  I  pity  you,  you  dirty  little  beggar. 
[He  starts  to  walk. 

You  ought  to  wash  your  hands  and  face  at 
least. 

JONATHAN 

Please,  sir  —  one  minute.  .  .  .  How  are  Mary 
and  John  third? 
JOHN  " 

Mary  is  ten  —  a  big  girl  —  and  John  third  is 
eight  —  a  strapping  boy  who  will  be  a  great 
help  to  me. 

JONATHAN 

And  —  how  is  Aunt  Letitia  ? 

JOHN 

My  aunt  died  of  a  broken  heart 

JONATHAN 

A  broken  heart? 
JOHN 

Because  Jonathan  ran  away. 

[Jonathan  buries  his  face  in  his  arms. 

There !     Don't  cry  for  someone  you've  never 

seen.   .  .  .  Here,  here,  take  this  — 

[He  presses  a  coin  into  Jonathan's  hand  and 

goes  out. 

Jonathan  looks  at  the  coin,  then  after  John,  and 

seems  to  close  his  heart.     He  crosses  to  the 

sleeping  Hank. 

146 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

Here,  Hank. 
HANK  (taking  the  coin) 
What'd  he  say? 

JONATHAN 

He  didn't  know  me. 

HANK 

I  guess  you're  not  going  back  home  now! 

JONATHAN 

No,  I  haven't  any  home. 

HANK 

Then  quit  your  snifflin'  an'  go  on  over  to  that 
house. 

JONATHAN 

All  right,  Hank. 

[Hank  curls  up  and  goes  to  sleep  again. 
Jonathan  crosses  to  the  cottage  and  finally  sum- 
mons  the  courage  to  knock  on  the  door.  As 
he  does  so  the  lights  within  grow  bright  and 
disclose  a  lovely  little  room  with  a  beautiful 
piano  in  the  centre.  In  a  moment  a  young 
woman  appears  and  opens  the  doors.  It  is 
Susan  Sample.  She  is  charmingly  older;  but 
she  is  dressed  almost  as  she  was  in  the  old  lum 
ber  room. 
JONATHAN 

Please,  Miss  —  why  — 
SUSAN 

What  do  you  want? 

JONATHAN 

I  —  don't  you  know  me? 

SUSAN 

No,  I  don't  know  you,  little  boy.     What  do  you 
want? 

147 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

I  —  don't  you  really  know  me? 

SUSAN 

I've  never  seen  you  before. 

JONATHAN 

I  know  you.   .   .   .  You're  Susan  Sample. 
SUSAN 

Who  told  you? 

JONATHAN 

I'm —      (He  becomes  conscious  of  his  back} 

Why  Jonathan  told  me. 
SUSAN 

Have  you  seen  Jonathan? 
JONATHAN 

Yes. 

SUSAN 

Where  is  he? 

JONATHAN 

I  don't  know. 
SUSAN 

He  ran  away.     Why  doesn't  he  come  home? 

JONATHAN 

Because  —  oh,  I  don't  know. 

SUSAN 

Who  are  you? 

JONATHAN 

I'm  a  vagrant. 

SUSAN 

Are  you  hungry? 
JONATHAN   (looking  toward  Hank) 

No.     I'm    not.   .   .   .   I'm     not    begging.  .  .   . 
But  will  you  do  something  for  me? 

SUSAN 

Yes,  if  I  can. 

148 


W    I_H' 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

Will  you  play  for  me? 

SUSAN 

Oh,  yes.   .   .   .   What  shall  I  play? 

JONATHAN 

Anything. 

[Jonathan  notices  his  dirty  hands. 

Excuse  me  a  moment. 

[He  goes  to  a  bird-bath  and  washes  his  hands, 

wipes  them  and  returns  to  the  piano. 

Susan  plays  a  bit  of  a  nocturne  with  ease  and 

grace. 

JONATHAN 

Do  you  remember  this? 
[He  hums  "  All  on  a  Summer  Day." 
SUSAN 
Oh,  yes. 

[She  plays  the  tune  in  a  sophisticated  musical 
way,  but  Jonathan  is  disappointed. 

SUSAN 

You  don't  like  it? 

JONATHAN 

That  isn't  exactly  the  way  it  goes. 
SUSAN 

Oh.  yes,  it  is. 

[She  plays  it  once  more  and  sings  it. 

JONATHAN 

No  —  no  —  no.      It  ought  to  go  this  way. 
[He  sings  it  as  he  had  sung  it  years  before. 

SUSAN 

You  sing  that  just  as  Jonathan  used  to  sing 
it. 

JONATHAN 

I  like  k  that  way. 

149 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

SUSAN 

Did  Jonathan  teach  it  to  you? 

JONATHAN 

Yes.  ...  A  long  time  ago. 

SUSAN 

Did  he  tell  you  — 

JONATHAN 

About  the  lovely  lady  who  danced  to  the  tune? 
Oh,  she  was  wonderful ! 
SUSAN 

Jonathan  ran  away  — and  he  never  wrote  to  me 
or  thought  of  me. 

JONATHAN 

He  thought  of  you  and  he  talked  of  you  and  he 
sang  of  you. 

SUSAN 

No  ...  I  can't  believe  that. 

JONATHAN 

Jonathan  loves  you  very  much. 
SUSAN 

If  a  man  loves  a  woman  very  much  he  can't  go 
away  from  her  for  years  and  years. 

JONATHAN 

Suppose  Jonathan  had  pride  and  was  ashamed 
to  let  y.ou  know  that  he  had  failed. 

SUSAN 

Jonathan  wouldn't  fail.     I  know  Jonathan. 

JONATHAN 

He  —  Susan  Sample ! 

[Susan  plays  softly.     She  is  lovely  in  the  sun 
light  which  is  lengthening  across  the  lawn. 
[Jonathan  watches  her  quietly.      The  love  of 
the  boy  fans  into  flame  and  he  reaches  out  to 
150 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

her,  then  in  the  consciousness  of  his  deformity 
he  turns  away. 

SUSAN 

Will  you  tell  me  where  Jonathan  was  when  you 
last  saw  him? 

JONATHAN 

I  don't  know  —  The  last  time  I  saw  Jonathan 
—  he  was  tall  and  straight  —  and  making  his 
way. 

SUSAN 

Oh,  well. 

[Albert  Peel  enters.     He  is  a  tittle  man   of 

immaculate  appearance  and  great  preciseness. 

ALBERT 

Ah,  Susan. 

SUSAN 

Albert,  you  are  late. 

ALBERT 

Who  is  this? 
SUSAN 

This  is  a  friend  of  Jonathan's. 

ALBERT 

Jonathan  who? 

SUSAN 

Don't  you  remember  Jonathan  who  had  the  toy 
theatre?  He  ran  away  from  home. 

ALBERT 

Oh  .  .  .  and  this  is  his  friend?  How  do  you 
do?- 

SUSAN 

Do  you  remember  this?     I  used  to  play  it  for 
you. 

[She  begins  "  All  on  a  Summer's  Day." 
Jonathan  and  I  made  it  up. 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

ALBERT  (laughing) 

Oh,  yes. 
SUSAN  (to  Jonathan) 

Come  on  and  sing  it. 

[Jonathan  is  not  sure  of  the  status  of  Albert 

Peel. 

[Susan  plays  and  she  and  Jonathan  sing  with 

great  feeling. 
ALBERT  (looking  at  his  watch. 

Well,  all  this  is  very  pleasant  indeed,  but  we'll 

have  to  go,  Susan  dear. 

[At  the  "  Susan,  dear  "  Jonathan  turns  quickly 

and  sees  the  two  holding  hands.     Susan  holds 

up  her  left  hand  and  shows  an  engagement  ring 

on  it.     Jonathan  is  utterly  crushed. 

JONATHAN 

I  think  I'd  better  say  good-bye. 
[He  takes  up  his  cap. 
SUSAN 

Good-bye.  If  you  see  Jonathan,  tell  him 
I'm  going  to  marry  Albert  Peet.  He'll 
know. 

ALBERT 

Good-bye. 

[Albert  and  Susan  walk  of  happily  in  the  sun 
shine. 

Jonathan  looks  after  them. 
Mile.  Perrault  enters  followed  by  Mary  and 
John  $rd.  Mile.  Perrault' s  dress  is  almost  like 
the  one  she  had  worn  when  she  first  met  Jona 
than  in  the  lumber-room,  except  that  the  colors 
are  reversed  and  more  brilliant.  Mary  is  a 
lovely  little  yellow-haired  child  of  ten  and  John 
is  a  stoical  matter-of-fact  boy  of  eight. 
152 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

The  two  children  are  evidently  very  fond  of 
Mile.  Perranlt,  as  fond  as  Jonathan  and  Susan 
had  seemed.  If  the  children  seem  thoughtless 
and  cruel,  it  is  because  they  are  children  and  life 
has  not  yet  laid  a  hard  hand  upon  them.  The 
sun  rays  are  very  low  against  the  wall  now  so 
that  anyone  walking  near  it  will  cast  a  very 
heavy  shadow. 
MARY 

John,  look  —  he's  a  hunchback. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

'Sh!     Children. 

[The  children  whisper. 

Jonathan    turns    and    seeing    Mile.    Perrault 

smiles. 

How  do  you  do,  little  man. 

JONATHAN 

I  am  well,  I  thank  you. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

What  are  you  doing  here? 

JONATHAN 

I  am  with  Hank. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Hank? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  Hank's  my  pal.     There  he  is  —  asleep. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Oh,    what   a    dreadful    person.   .   .   .   Children, 
don't  go  near  him. 

JONATHAN 

He's  not  so  bad. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

But  he  is  a  vagrant  —  a  tramp.     Why  does  he 
do  nothing? 

153 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

He's  happier  that  way. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Are  you  his  son? 

JONATHAN 

Oh,  no. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Where  is  your  mother? 

JONATHAN 

My  mother's  dead. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Where  did  she  live? 

JONATHAN      (Looks  for  a  trace  of  recognition) 
I'd  better  not  tell  you. 

MARY 

Oh,  please  tell  us. 

JONATHAN 

I'd  better  not. 

MARY 

You  ask  him,  John. 
JOHN  m 
Uh-uh! 

MARY 

Why  not? 

JOHN   III 

I  don't  want  to  know. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Why  don't  you  want  to  tell  usf     We  won't  tell 
anybody. 
JONATHAN 

No.bo.dy'11  believe  me. 

MARY 

Why? 

154 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

You  see,  I  ran  away  from  home  — 

JOHN   III 

When  you  run  away  from  home,  you're  no 
good. 

MARY 

Now,  John,  that  isn't  always  so. 

JOHN   III 

It  is. 

MARY 

It  isn't.  Goldilocks  and  the  Babes  in  the 
Wood  and  the  Marquis  of  Carabas  were  all 
good,  and  they  ran  away  from  home. 

JOHN  in 

But  they  had  bad  homes. 

MARY 

Was  your  home  bad? 

JONATHAN 

I  thought  it  was. 

JOHN   III 

You  thought  it  was.     But  was  it? 

JONATHAN 

No. 

JOHN   III 

Then  you're  no  good. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Oh,  John. 

JOHN   III 

No,  he  isn't.  Grandfather  said  nobody  who 
ran  away  from  home  was  any  good ! 

MARY 

Why  did  you  run  away  from  home? 

JONATHAN 

I  mustn't  tell. 

155 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

MARY 

Oh,  you  won't  tell  anything! 
JOHN  in   (pointing  to  Hank) 

What  did  you  say  he  was,  Ma'mselle? 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

He  is  a  vagrant  — 

MARY  AND  JOHN  III 

What's  a  vagrant? 

MARY 

Ooh  — 

[Puts  up  her  hand  to  make  a  wish. 
JOHN  in 

Aw,  I'm  not  going  to  make  a  wish.     Grand- 
father'll  get  it  for  me  anyway  if  I  want  it. 

MARY 

Now,  John  Clay  III  — 
[Jonathan  looks  up  quickly. 
You  always  spoil  things. 

JONATHAN 

Is  that  Mary  Clay  and  John  Clay? 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Yes. 

JONATHAN 

They  don't  remember  Jonathan,  do  they? 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

You  mean  Jonathan  who  ran  away? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  ma'am. 

MARY 

Who's  Jonathan? 

JOHN    III 

He's  David's  friend.     I  know  that.     And  he 
was  very  good. 

156 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

What  do  you  know  about  Jonathan? 

JONATHAN 

I  knew  him  once  — 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

He  was  a  splendid  little  man !  He  could  make 
such  lovely  songs. 

JONATHAN 

Do  you  remember  the  one  he  and  Susan  Sample 
made  up? 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Let's  see  —  how  did  it  go? 
[Hums  a  little  —  tries  several  folk  tunes.  The 
children  edge  up  to  Jonathan  during  this  and 
manage  to  touch  his  back  several  times,  each 
keeping  count.  Jonathan  smiles  at  them, 
thinking  it's  attention. 

JONATHAN 

No,  it  went  this  way. 

[He  sings  a  little  of  the  song  and  Mile.  Per 
rault  joins  him.  As  he  stops  singing  she 
switches  the  time  to  waltz  time  and  begins  to 
sway  to  it.  The  music  is  taken  up  as  by  a 
dream-orchestra  and  Mile.  Perrault  dances  a 
very  lovely  little  waltz. 

JOHN    III 

Oh,  look  at  your  shadow ! 

[Mile.  Perrault  turns  and  sees  her  shadow  on 

the  wall. 

I  can  make  a  bigger  one  than  that. 

MARY 

Oh,  come  on,  ma'mselle,  let's  all  make  shadows. 
[The  three  of  them  stand  in  front  of  the 
wall. 

157 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JOHN   III 

Boy,  you  come,  too. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Come,  boy. 

[Jonathan  joins  them  standing  so  that  his  de 
formity  doesn't  show  in  the  shadow. 
Now,  let's  dance  —  Give  me  your  hand  —  so. 
[The  four  dance,  while  Mile.  Perrault  hums 
"  All  on  a  Summer's  Day."      They  are  having  a 
very  good  time  when  Susan  and  Albert  enter. 
Jonathan  is  a  little  conscious  of  Susan  and  Al 
bert,  and  he  manages  to  make  several  awkward 
moves. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Now,  let's  make  everybody's  shadow  dance  by 
itself. 
MARY 

Oh,  come  on. 

JOHN   III 

You  first,  Mile. 

MARY 

It's  your  turn,  Mile. 

[Mile.   Perrault  stands   before  the  wall  and 

makes  a  very  lovely  shadow. 

John,  you  do  it  now. 

JOHN   III 

I  won't.     I'm  going  to  be  next  to  last.  .  . 

He's  going  to  be  last. 

[Mary  makes  a  pretty  "  statue." 

MARY 

Now,  John  — 

[John  III,  holding  a  staff,  stands  bow-legged 

and  pigeon-toed. 

All  of  them  laugh. 

158 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

MLLE.    PERRAULT    (to  John  III) 

You  little  Jackanapes!     You! 
JOHN  in  (to  Jonathan) 
You  can't  do  that. 

[Jonathan,  still  conscious  of  Susan,  but  more  in 
the  spirit  of  the  game  nevertheless,  laughs  al 
most  gleefully. 

JONATHAN 

You  just  wait. 

[He  stands  in  front  of  the  wall  and  does  some 
comical  movements  with  his  feet  and  legs,  then 
he  turns  in  such  a  way  that  for  the  first  time 
the  shadow  of  his  hump  is  thrown  into  a  pitiful 
distortion  on  the  wall.  He  doesn't  see  it  at 
first,  for  he  is  lost  in  the  game  with  the  chil 
dren. 

JOHN  in  (yelling  suddenly] 
Oh,  look! 

[  The  children  laugh  immoderately,  and  Jona 
than  turns  his  head  quickly,  but  in  so  doing 
alters  the  shadow.  He  smiles  joyfully  and  then 
once  more  falls  into  the  distorted  picture. 

MARY 

Ooh  — 

JOHN   III 

That's  funnier  than  mine. 

[Jonathan  turns  his  head  this  time  and  sees  the 
full  horror  of  the  thing. 

Mile.  Perrault  and  Susan  have  realized  too  late 
to  protect  Jonathan. 
MLLE.    PERRAULT 

John!  Mary!  Tell  the  little  boy  good-bye. 
We  must  go. 

[Jonathan    looks    toward   Susan    and   Albert. 
159 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

There  is  pity  in  Susan's  eyes  and  a  smile  in  Al 
bert's. 

SUSAN 

Albert,  come  —  let's  go ! 
[They  pass  into  the  house. 

JOHN  in      (Almost  as  Susan  speaks. 
Wasn't  he  funniest  of  all! 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Now,  run  along,  children.      Run  along. 

MARY 

Look,  I  can  make  a  hump-back. 

JOHN    III 

So  can  I. 

MARY 

Not  a  good  one! 

JOHN    III 

You  can't  touch  mine. 

[He  smacks  Mary  on  the  back  and  runs  off, 

Mary  following  him. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Little  man,  I'm  very  sorry.     You  mustn't  let 
them  hurt  you.     They  are  only  children. 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  ma'am.   .   .   .  Thank  you. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

May  I  do  something  for  you? 

JONATHAN 

No,  ma'am  ...  if  you  please  ...   I  must  go 
to  Hank. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

Here,  take  this  — 
[She  offers  a  coin. 

JONATHAN 

Oh,  no,  ma'am.  .   .  . 

1 60 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

[He  puts  his  hand  behind  him. 

MLLE.    PERRAULT 

I  am  sorry.   .  .   .  Very,  very  sorry. 
JONATHAN 

Yes,  ma'am. 

[Mile.   Perrault   goes    out  silently,    and   in   a 

moment    she    is    heard    to    call    "  Marie " — 

"  John,"  and  a  distant  answer  is  heard. 

Susan  comes  to  the  door  and  sees  Jonathan. 

She  crosses  to  him.     He  looks  at  her  almost 

with  madness  in  his  eyes. 
SUSAN 

They  didn't  mean  to  hurt  you. 

[She  lays  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  I  know. 

[There  is  a  moment  of  the  tenderest,  most  un 
derstanding  silence.  He  turns  away. 
Susan  starts  to  reach  in  her  bag,  she  even  takes 
her  purse  out;  but  she  replaces  it  unopened,  and 
instead  of  bestowing  alms,  she  takes  a  flower 
from  her  hair  and  presses  it  in  Jonathan's 
hands. 

He  looks  at  her  with  years  of  pent-up  gratitude 
loosed  from  his  heart. 

Silently,  she  turns  away  and  goes  into  the  house. 
Jonathan,  left  alone,  turns  so  that  his  hump 
once  more  shows  in  the  most  distorted  shadow. 
He  lifts  the  flower  and  for  a  single  moment,  its 
shadow  rises  above  the  shadow  of  the  hump,  a 
tiny  cross  on  his  little  Calvary.  Then  he  lays 
the  flower  against  his  cheek  and  sits  upon  the 
log  near  Hank. 
Hank  awakens. 

161 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

HANK  (looking  up  stupidly] 

What  you  got? 
JONATHAN  (hiding  the  flower) 

Nothing. 
HANK 

Come  across,  Humpy. 

JONATHAN 

Don't  you  call  me  that! 

HANK 

So  —  ho !     What  you  yelling  at  me  for? 
[He  sits  up. 

JONATHAN 

Nothing.  ...  I  didn't  mean  to  yell. 

HANK 

What  you  got  there? 

JONATHAN 

I  tell  you  I  haven't  got  anything,  Hank. 

HANK 

Come  on.     Come  across. 

JONATHAN 

It's  not  for  you. 
HANK 

Come  on. 
JONATHAN      (Rises  and  moves  away) 

No. 

HANK 

Gimme  it  here.  .  .  . 

[He  grabs  Jonathan  and  tears  the  flower  from 
his  hand. 
JONATHAN 

Stop  that! 

HANK 

Great  God !      (  Throwing  the  crushed  petals  on 
the  ground)      Say,  what  s  the  matter  with  you? 
162 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

I  tell  you,  I'm  going  back.  .  .  .  I'm  going  back 
to  my  home.  .  .  .  I'm  going  to  find  my  Uncle 
Nathaniel.  I  know  he'll  take  me  in.  He 
won't  blame  me  because  I'm  a  cripple.  ...  I 
know.  ...  I  know.  .  .  .  Didn't  he  say,  "  Poor 
Jonathan  "?  .  .  . 

[At  this  moment  Nathaniel  enters,  and  the  two 
stand  face  to  face  as  they  had  stood  in  the  lum 
ber-room  at  their  first  meeting. 
Hank  slinks  away. 

Nathaniel  is  untouched  by   the  years.     Jona 
than  looks  at  him  hopefully,  but  there  is  no 
glint  of  recognition  in  Nathaniel's  eye. 
JONATHAN   (timidly) 
Uncle  Nathariiel. 

NATHANIEL 

What  did  you  say,  my  boy? 

JONATHAN      (Less  and  less  audible t  as  his  dis 
appointment  increases) 
Uncle  Nathaniel. 

NATHANIEL 

I  can't  hear  you. 

JONATHAN 

You  —  are  —  my  —  Uncle  Nathaniel. 

NATHANIEL 

Come,  come,  my  boy.     I  can't  hear  you. 

JONATHAN 

Aren't  you  —  Mr.  —  Nathaniel  —  Clay? 
NATHANIEL  (kindly,  but  as  to  a  stranger} 

Yes,  I  am  Mr.  Nathaniel  Clay. 

{Jonathan  smiles  one  of  his  old  half  smiles. 
JONATHAN 

My  name's  —  Jonathan. 

163 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

NATHANIEL 

Jonathan !  .  .  .  I  had  a  nephew  whose  name 
was  Jonathan. 

JONATHAN 

Don't  you  know  me? 

NATHANIEL 

You  must  forgive  me,  little  man  —  but  I  do 
not  remember  you.     Boys  grow  so  quickly. 
JONATHAN 

Don't  you  remember  Zenobia? 

NATHANIEL 

Zenobia?     Who  was  she? 

JONATHAN 

Don't  you  remember  the  little  theatre? 

NATHANIEL 

Oh,  yes,  my  nephew  Jonathan  had  a  little 
toy  theatre,  and  he  wrote  a  play  called  Zenobia. 
.  .  .  He  burnt  them. 

JONATHAN 

Was  it  wrong  to  burn  them? 

NATHANIEL 

I  don't  know.  You  see  Jonathan  ran  away, 
and  I  have  never  seen  him  since. 

JONATHAN 

Do  you  blame  him? 

NATHANIEL 

Well,  I  can't  say.  When  a  fine  boy  like  Jona 
than  runs  away  from  home,  he  may  have  what 
he  considers  a  good  reason. 

JONATHAN 

Don't  you  know  why  he  ran  away? 

NATHANIEL 

I  think  I  know. 

164 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

Would  you  tell  me  why? 

NATHANIEL 

That  wouldn't  do  any  good,  my  boy.  ...  If 
you  had  an  uncle  who  liked  you  very  much, 
would  you  run  away? 

JONATHAN 

No,  sir  —  not  if  I  had  another  chance.  .  .  . 

NATHANIEL 

What  do  you  mean? 

JONATHAN 

Don't  you  really  know  me? 

NATHANIEL 

I'm  sorry  —  no ! 
JONATHAN  (pointing  to  Hank) 

Do  you  know  him? 

NATHANIEL 

That  tramp? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir.  .  .  .  That's  Hank. 

NATHANIEL 

Hank? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  the  one  I  ran  away  with. 

NATHANIEL 

Did  you  run  away,  too? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir;  I  jumped  out  the  window,  and  I  fell 
and  broke  my  back.  Hank  said  — 

NATHANIEL 

What  a  dirty  man ! 

JONATHAN 

He's  my  pal. 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

NATHANIEL 

You're  evidently  a  fine  young  man  inside. 

JONATHAN 

Oh,  I'm  sorry,  sir,  that  I  ran  away. 
NATHANIEL 

You  can't  undo  the  past,  my  boy,  but  you  can 
make  the  future. 
JONATHAN 

I  can't  straighten  my  back. 

NATHANIEL 

Perhaps  not,  but  you  can  straighten  your  life. 

JONATHAN 

I'm  only  a  beggar,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

There  is  something  everybody  can  do. 

JONATHAN 

There  isn't  any  place  for  me.  .  .  . 

NATHANIEL 

My  boy,  there  is  a  place  for  everybody  who 
wants  a  place. 

JONATHAN 

Do  you  remember  what  your  nephew  wanted 
to  do  ? 

NATHANIEL 

Yes,  he  wanted  to  write  plays  and  run  a  theatre 
and  be  an  actor. 

JONATHAN 

I  couldn't  ever  be  an  actor,  could  I  ? 

NATHANIEL 

No,  my  boy. 

JONATHAN 

Supposing  you  had  your  heart  set  on  something 
?nd  couldn't  do  it,  what  would  you  do? 
166 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

NATHANIEL 

I'd  not  give  up.   .  .   .   I'd  try  something  else. 

JONATHAN 

Supposing  I  were  your  nephew,  what  would  you 
do? 

NATHANIEL 

I'd  find  out  what  you  wanted  to  be. 

JONATHAN 

Don't  I  look  like  Jonathan? 

NATHANIEL 

Jonathan  must  be  very  tall  now. 

JONATHAN 

If  Jonathan  weren't  tall? 

NATHANIEL 

But  he  is  tall  and  splendid.     I  know  Jonathan ! 
And  he's  doing  what  he  set  out  to  do. 

JONATHAN 

I  hope  you'll  find  him,  sir,  and  I  hope  he'll 
make  you  proud. 
NATHANIEL  (very  earnestly) 
My  boy,  how  old  are  you  ? 

JONATHAN 

I'm  twenty. 

NATHANIEL 

Twenty.  .  .  .  Will  you  try  to  pull  yourself  out 
of  the  rut? 

JONATHAN 

What  do  you  mean,  sir? 

NATHANIEL 

Look  at  that  man.     What  is  he  to  you? 

JONATHAN 

He's  my  pal. 

167 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

NATHANIEL 

You  mustn't  waste  your  life  on  such  emptiness 
as  his. 

JONATHAN 

I'm  going  to  try,  sir.  .  .  .  And  if  I  make  good, 
will  you  believe  I'm  Jonathan? 

NATHANIEL 

I'll  believe  you  are  you.  .  .  .  Here.  .  .  . 
[He  offers  Jonathan  a  coin. 
JONATHAN 

Oh,  no,  sir.  ...  I  can't  —  from  you  — 

NATHANIEL 

Well,  you  are  a  strange  beggar  — 

JONATHAN 

I'm  not  a  beggar  at  heart.  ...  I  don't  want  to 
be  what  I  am.  But  I  don't  know  which  way  to 
turn.  I'm  all  mixed  up. 

NATHANIEL 
All  mixed  up  ? 

[Nathaniel  turns  and  looks  toward  the  hill. 
Boy,  there  is  a  green  hill  far  away.     Climb  to 
the  top  of  it,  look  about  and  you  will  see  — 

JONATHAN 

I  know :  the  whole  wide  world ! 

NATHANIEL 

Exactly. 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

Go  to  the  hilltop  alone  —  and  cry  out  to  your 
heart's  content. —  There's  nothing  like  a  hilltop 
to  make  a  man  feel  worth  while ! 

JONATHAN 

I  knew  that,  sir;  but  I  forgot  it.     I'm  going  — 
168 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

NATHANIEL 

Good-bye,  boy;  God  bless  you. 

[The  two  clasp  hands  and  Nathaniel  goes. 

JONATHAN 

He  believes  in  me.   .  .   . 

[He  watches  Nathaniel  with  wide  eyes,  then 

calls  to  Hank. 

Hank!     Hank! 

HANK 

What  you  want? 

JONATHAN 

He  didn't  know  me ! 

HANK 

Who  didn't  know  you? 
[Hank  lies  down. 
JONATHAN 

Uncle  Nathaniel.  .  .  .  He  just  passed  by.  ... 
But,  Hank,  he  believed  in  me !     He  believed 
I'd  make  good. 
HANK 

Say,  what's  the  matter  with  you  today? 

JONATHAN 

I'm  goin'  to  leave  you,  Hank. 

HANK 

Huh? 

JONATHAN 

Old    pal,    I'm    going    to    leave    you    forever. 
You've  stuck  by  me  — 

HANK 

Sure,  I've  stuck  by  you. 
[Makes  himself  comfortable. 
Ain't  you  saved  me  a  heap  o'  trouble? 
169 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

But  I'm  going  now,   Hank.     Good-bye.     I'm 

going  to  the  green  hill  far  away. 

[He  starts  away  leaving  Hank  alone  and  asleep. 

The  lights  fade  out. 

Soft  music  is  heard  through  the  darkness  and 

slowly   the   outline   of  the  green   hill  appears 

close  at  hand.     Jonathan  outlined  against  the 

sky  appears  at  the  edge  of  the  hill,  climbing 

with  difficulty. 
NATHANIEL      (  The  voice  is  heard  with  the  music) 

Nine      ninety-nine  —  one      thousand.     You're 

nearly  there,  Boy. 
JONATHAN 

Nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  —  one  thousand 
—  I'm  almost  there. 
NATHANIEL  (far  away) 

A  thousand  and  one  —  a  thousand  and  two  — 

JONATHAN 

A  thousand  and  one,  a  thousand  and  two  —  I 
am  here ! 

NATHANIEL  (far  away) 
The  world  is  here. 

JONATHAN  (as  though  addressing  the  world) 
Listen.  ...  I  ran  away.  I  ran  away.  I  was 
fourteen.  I  saw  visions  of  great  things.  I 
heard  voices  of  the  past  and  the  future.  I 
wanted  to  tell  what  I  saw  and  heard.  .  .  .  Oh, 
you  who  made  sport  of  my  dreams,  I  am  here  at 
the  top  of  the  world!  Uncle  John,  I  have 
heard  things  you  will  never  hear,  and  I  have 
seen  things  you  will  never  see. 

JOHN  (far  away) 

But  your  back's  broken. 
170 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

Oh,    Susan  —  Susan    Sample  —  see  —  see.     I 
told    you    I    wasn't    a    beggar.     See  —  see  — 
Jonathan  stands  at  the  top  of  the  world! 
SUSAN  (faintly) 

But  your  back's  broken. 

JONATHAN 

Oh,  people  of  all  the  world,  I  am  a  boy  who 
asks  you  to  hear  me  and  to  understand.  I  only 
wanted  to  work  out  my  way.  ...  I  planned 
my  way  because  I  couldn't  help  it  —  I  wanted  to 
build  my  own  world  —  alone.  ...  I  climbed 
clear  to  the  top  —  Jonathan  stands  before 
you  — 

VOICES 

Jonathan's  dead. 

JONATHAN 

Dead?  .  .  .  Oh,  see  the  wreck  of  everything. 
.  .  .  Jonathan  is  dead! 
[He  falls. 

NATHANIEL 

Boy  —  boy  —  Jonathan !  —  I  believe  you  are 
you. 

JONATHAN 

Uncle  Nathaniel! 
[He  rises  slowly. 

Oh,  people  of  all  the  world,  my  Uncle  Nathan 
iel  understands. —  I  speak  for  all  the  boys  of  all 
times.  Have  patience  —  patience  and  under 
standing.  Don't  you  remember  when  you  were 
young?  We  come  to  you  with  hopes  and 
dreams  and  wishes  and  fears, —  and  these  are 
the  things  that  life  is  made  of  — 
171 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

NATHANIEL 

I  am  here,  Jonathan. 
JONATHAN 

I'm  coming  to  you.     I'm  coming  back  to  you 
with  all  my  hopes  and  dreams. 

NATHANIEL 

We're  waiting  for  you,  Jonathan. 

JONATHAN 

I've  made  my  wish  that's  coming  true ! ! 
[He  jumps  into  space. 


Curtain. 


172 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 


ACT  III 
JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

[The  scene  is  a  summer  house  on  the  estate  of 
John  Clay.  It  is  charmingly  furnished  with 
wicker  chairs  and  a  table.  The  building  is 
hexagon  shape  and  we  look  into  half  the  hexa 
gon.  The  doors  at  the  left  open  on  to  the  path 
that  leads  from  the  house.  The  doors  at  the 
back  open  onto  a  garden  path  that  leads  to  a 
gate.  Eight  weeks  have  elapsed  since  the  first 
act. 

The  curtain  rises  disclosing  an  empty  stage. 
It  is  early  evening  and  sunset  is  leaving  only  the 
faintest  tinge  above  the  hills.  After  a  moment 
Jonathan  enters.  He  is  unchanged  except  that 
he  still  carries  in  his  eyes  some  of  the  horror 
of  his  delirium.  He  opens  the  back  windows 
and  then  sits  above  the  table  and  begins  to  look 
at  an  illustrated  paper. 

Nathaniel  enters  carrying  a  manuscript.  He 
seems  a  bit  less  carefree  than  at  his  home 
coming,  and  he  also  seems  closer  to  Jonathan. 

NATHANIEL 

Well,  my  boy  — 

JONATHAN 

Uncle  Jonathan,  did  you  know  that  Caproni  was 
an  artist? 
NATHANIEL 

You  mean  the  Caproni  who  makes  the  wonder 
ful  aeroplanes? 

173 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

No,  I  didn't  know  it;  but  I'm  not  surprised. 

JONATHAN 

Aren't  these  pictures  fine? 

NATHANIEL 

Excellent. 

JONATHAN 

He     made     them.  .  .  .  They're     like     great 
dragon-flies,  aren't  they? 
NATHANIEL 

A  whole  swarm  of  them. 

JONATHAN 

It  must  feel  funny  to  fly  through  air. 
NATHANIEL 

Would  you  like  to  try  it  some  time? 
JONATHAN 

Yes  .  .  .  but  I'd  have  to  get  used  to  it.  ...  It 
must  be  like  diving. 

NATHANIEL 

When  you  were  very  ill  you  seemed  to  imagine 
you  were  falling. 

JONATHAN 

Did  I  talk  much  when  I  was  unconscious? 

NATHANIEL 

You  talked  almost  continuously. 

JONATHAN 

Did  I?  ...  You  said  you'd  tell  me  what  I 
said  —  when  I  was  strong  enough.  .  .  .  I'm 
pretty  strong  now. 

NATHANIEL 

Do  you  know  what  I  did? 
174 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

I  don't  know. 
NATHANIEL  (showing  manuscript) 

Can  you  guess? 
JONATHAN      (Looks  at  manuscript) 

"  Jonathan  Builds  a  Fear."     What  does  that 

mean? 
NATHANIEL 

When  you  were  delirious  I  listened  to  what  you 
said  and  then  I  made  a  story  out  of  it. 

JONATHAN 

You  mean  this  is  all  about  me? 
NATHANIEL 

It's  about  a  little  hunchback  who  thought  he  was 
you. 

JONATHAN 

I  know.  I  was  always  trying  to  make  some 
body  know  me,  and  finally  I  thought  I  jumped 
from  the  top  of  a  hill  and  I  seemed  to  be  fall 
ing  for  years  and  years.  .  .  . 

NATHANIEL 

Those  were  terrible  days,  my  boy,  and  do 
you  know,  we  were  afraid  you  wouldn't 
live. 

JONATHAN 

It  was  a  terrible  feeling. 

NATHANIEL 

I  know,  but  all  that's  over  now;  and  there's  the 
whole  story  about  the  little  hunchback  you  never 
were. 
JONATHAN 

[Hank's  whistle  is  heard.  Jonathan  rises  very 
quickly  and  looks  at  Nathaniel. 

175 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

NATHANIEL 

He  comes  every  now  and  then  to  ask  about  you 
and  to  get  something  to  eat. 
[Hank  whistles  again. 
HANK'S  VOICE  (at  back) 
Hi! 

NATHANIEL 

Come  in,  Hank. — 

HANK 

Is  the  old  man  here? 

NATHANIEL 

No. 

HANK      (Enters  through  the  gateway  whistling) 
Hello,  boy. 

JONATHAN 

I'm  well  now.     How  are  you? 

HANK 

I'm  beginning  to  get  cold,  so  I  think  I'll  go 
south  tomorrow  and  I  thought  I'd  drop  in  to  say 
good-bye. 

NATHANIEL 

I'll  give  you  an  overcoat,  Hank. 

HANK 

No,  thanks.  It's  too  hot  to  carry  it.  I'll  get 
one  when  I  really  need  it,  maybe. 

NATHANIEL 

Well,  here's  something  for  you. 
[He  offers  him  a  five  dollar  bill. 
Five    dollars!     No,    thanks.     If    I    had    that 
much  money  I'd  lose  it  maybe.     Give  me  two 
bits  and  call  it  square. 
[Nathaniel  hands  him  a  quarter. 
Thanks.  .  .  .  Well  .  .  .  good-bye.  .  .  .  I'm  glad 
your  back  wasn't  broke. 
176 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

Good-bye,  Hank. 

HANK 

Good-bye,  Mister.  .  .  .  I'll  see  you  next  year 
maybe,  when  it's  warm. —  Say,  kid,  I'd  like  to 
see  that  Zenobia  show  again :  — "  Hail,  noble 
duke,"  "  All's  well,  Irene."  "  Not  very  well, 
noble  duke." 

[He  goes  out,  chuckling  to  himself. 
Aunt  Letitia  enters.  As  usual  she  has  some 
thing  to  keep  her  hands  busy.  She  seats  her 
self  comfortably  in  a  chair  that  custom  has  evi 
dently  made  her  very  own.  In  her  work  she 
shows  the  effect  of  time  upon  her  eyes  and  she 
may  feel  a  tiny  draught  that  causes  her  to  close 
the  doors  behind  her  and  draw  her  scarf  a  bit 
more  closely  about  her.  Never  has  Aunt  Le 
titia  seemed  more  successfully  the  poor  relation. 
LETITIA 

I  thought  you  were  out  with  John. 

NATHANIEL 

No. 

[Jonathan  is  looking  at  the  manuscript. 
LETITIA  (to  Jonathan) 
How  do  you  feel,  dear? 

JONATHAN 

Fine;  .   .  .  I  think  I'll  go  in  the  house  and  read 

this. 

(To  Nathaniel) 

I'm  glad  it  isn't  true. 

[He  goes  out. 

NATHANIEL 

It's  the  story  of  his  delirium.     I   thought  it 
would  interest  him  —  and  relieve  him. 
177 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

LETITIA 

Has  John  gone? 

NATHANIEL 

Only  for  a  stroll  —  the  doctor's  orders. 

LETITIA 

Well? 

NATHANIEL 

Well? 

LETITIA 

Sit  down. 

NATHANIEL 

In  John's  chair? 
LETITIA 

If  you  wish. 

NATHANIEL 

John's  chair !     The  throne  of  the  head  of  the 
family!      (He  sits  in  John's  chair)      Well? 
LETITIA 

Nathaniel  dear,  you  are  making  John  very  un 
happy. 

NATHANIEL 

And  John  has  made  me  very  unhappy,  dearest 
Aunt  Letty. 

LETITIA 

The  feeling  at  the  dinner  table  was  almost  un 
bearable  tonight.  There  we  sat  strained  and 
silent. 

NATHANIEL 

I  am  sorry.  I  try  to  avoid  meals  with  John  as 
much  as  possible. 

LETITIA 

You've  been  here  eight  weeks  and  John  and  I 
know  nothing  of  you.  For  me  it  is  enough  that 
you  are  here ;  but  John  is  the  head  of  the  fam- 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

ily  and  he  feels  that  you  ought  to  treat  him  with 
greater  deference. 

NATHANIEL 

It  is  revolting  to  me  to  have  a  tsar  in  the  family. 

LETITIA 

Your  father  and  your  father's  father  and  grand 
father  were  rulers  of  the  Clay  family. 

NATHANIEL 

I  don't  question  that. 
LETITIA 

You  can't  change  John. 

NATHANIEL 

I  don't  want  to  change  John. 

LETITIA 

Then  why  not  tell  him  something  about  your 
self? 

NATHANIEL 

It  is  none  of  John's  affairs  how  or  why  I  live. 
It  is  none  of  his  affair  how  or  why  or  when  I 
shall  marry  Mile.  Perrault. 

LETITIA 

Perhaps  not. 

NATHANIEL 

When  I  tell  him  anything,  Aunt  Letty,  it  will 
be  one  thing  —  I  have  stayed  here  because  I 
love  Jonathan,  because  he  needs  .me.  And  I 
have  listened  to  the  boy's  fears  and  to  his  hopes 
as  they  came  out  of  his  poor  tortured  little  soul 
in  his  delirium.  I  have  watched  him  during  his 
convalescence,  and  I  see  in  him  a  growing  man 
in  prison.  John  sees  in  him  only  the  potential 
head  of  the  family;  but  he  is  my  flesh  and  blood 
as  much  as  he  is  John's  and  I  intend  to  set  him 
free. 

179 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

LETITIA 

My  beloved  Nathaniel,  John  will  not  give  Jona 
than  up  to  you. 
NATHANIEL 

I  don't  want  Jonathan  unless  he  wants  to 
come  to  me,  but  I  do  want  Jonathan's  free 
dom. 

LETITIA 

Isn't  he  a  bit  young  to  have  freedom. 

NATHANIEL 

Aunt  Letitia,  I  don't  mean  a  silly  license. —  I 
mean  freedom.  If  you  are  cultivating  a  peach- 
tree  you  don't  expect  oranges  on  it  even  if  it 
could  wish  to  be  an  orange  tree,  but  you  can 
help  to  make  it  bear  better  peaches.  Jonathan 
isn't  a  mechanical  business  person.  His  bent  is 
in  another  direction. 
LETITIA 

What  are  you  going  to  do? 

NATHANIEL 

Frankly,  I  do  not  know. 
[Up  to  window. 

All  I  know  now  is  that  I  shall  stay  here  until  I 
find  a  plan. 
[Jonathan  enters. 
JONATHAN 

Where  is  Uncle  John? 

NATHANIEL 

He  has  gone  for  a  stroll. 

LETITIA 

What  do  you  want,  my  dear? 

JONATHAN 

Uncle  John  sent  word  that  he  wanted  to  see  me 
here  at  7  130. 

180 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

[Letitia  and  Nathaniel  look  at  each  other. 
Jonathan  takes  out  a  large  silver  watch. 
It's  7  .-29  now. 

NATHANIEL 

John  will  be  on  time  —  count  sixty  slowly  — 
[John  enters.     He  is  rather  pale,  seems  pre 
occupied  and  even  more  unapproachable  then 
ever. 
LETITIA 

Did  you  have  a  pleasant  stroll? 

JOHN 

I  wasn't  walking. 

LETITIA 

I  shall  go  into  the  house,  I  think. 

JOHN 

No,  Aunt  Letitia,  I  would  rather  you'd  wait,  if 
you  please. 

[Nathaniel  is  an  interested  spectator.     He  can 
not  understand  why  Jonathan  should  be  present 
for  what  will  probably  be  an  eventful  family 
scene. 
Nathaniel,  will  you  sit  down? 

NATHANIEL 

Certainly. —  Where  ? 

JOHN  (tartly) 

Would  you  like  my  chair? 

NATHANIEL 

Thank  you. 

[He  sits  in  John's  chair,  much  to  John's  annoy 
ance. 
JOHN 

Jonathan,  sit  down. 

[Jonathan  sits.     John  also  sits.     Aunt  Letitia 
knows  what  to  expect.     Nathaniel  is  more  curi- 
181 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

ous  than  angry.  Jonathan  is  attending  his  first 
family  conference. 

Jonathan,  I've  sent  for  you  because  I  want  to 
talk  to  you  seriously. 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

Do  you  think  the  boy  is  strong  enough? 

JOHN 

The  doctor  told  me  today  that  he  would  be  quite 
equal  to  it.  ...  Eight  weeks  ago,  Jonathan, 
you  made  an  effort  to  run  away  from  your 
home,  because  I  punished  you.  In  your  foolish 
defiance  of  all  family  authority  you  suffered  a 
fall  that  might  have  resulted  in  a  lasting  and 
serious  injury.  Fortunately  you  have  recov 
ered  fully  from  the  result  of  your  fall. 

NATHANIEL 

Excuse  me,  John,  but  all  of  us  know  this. 

JOHN 

One  moment,  please,  Nathaniel.  ...  I  have 
now  arranged  that  you  begin  your  preparation 
for  your  life  work  immediately.  You  will 
leave  for  Somerset  School  the  day  after  tomor 
row. 
JONATHAN  (desperately) 

Uncle  John,  I  don't  want  to  go  to  Somerset 
School. 

JOHN 

You  will  leave  for  Somerset  day  after  tomor 
row.  Good  night,  Jonathan. 

NATHANIEL 

Why  Somerset? 

182 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JOHN 

Good  night,  Jonathan. 
[Jonathan,  dazed,  goes  out. 
NATHANIEL 

Jonathan  will  never  go  to  Somerset  School. 

JOHN 

Nathaniel,  you  forfeited  your  rights  in  the  fam 
ily  councils  when  you  ran  away  from  home  sev 
enteen  years  ago. 
NATHANIEL 

This  boy  will  run  away  again  and  again  and  I 
mean  to  save  him  from  what  I  have  suffered,  if 
I  can. 

JOHN 

Nathaniel,  by  what  right  do  you  attempt  to 
interfere  with  my  decisions? 

NATHANIEL 

By  the  right  of  blood  and  understanding. 

JOHN 

Blood  and  understanding?  Where  were  you 
when  Emily  had  to  leave  her  husband  and 
brought  her  boy  into  my  home.  Where  were 
you  when  Emily  died?  I  took  Emily  in  and 
I  took  her  boy  in.  As  head  of  the  family 
it  was  my  duty  to  do  so  and  as  head  of 
the  family  it  is  my  duty  to  see  that  the  boy 
is  brought  up  in  the  best  traditions  of  the 
family. 

NATHANIEL 

John,  you  can't  force  this  boy  into  a  mold. 

JOHN 

A  boy  of  fourteen  doesn't  know  his  mind.  .  .  . 
Do  you  know  what  Jonathan  wants  to  be? 

183 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

NATHANIEL 

Yes,  a  writer  of  plays,  a  theatre  director,  and 
an  actor. 

JOHN 

Imagine !  .  .  .  And  I  suppose  you  encouraged 
him. 

NATHANIEL 

No,  but  I  didn't  discourage  him.  The  selection 
was  wide  enough  for  him  to  find  some  lasting 
life  work. 

JOHN 

He  never  told  me  he  wanted  to  be  an  actor. 

NATHANIEL 

Oh,  my  brother,  every  growing  boy  has  a  deep 
secret  wish  that  he  cannot  bring  himself  to  dis 
close  !  As  you  know,  I  always  wanted  to  be  a 
writer,  but  most  of  all  I  wanted  to  be  a  left- 
handed  base  ball  pitcher.  And  although  I'm 
irretrievably  right  handed  I  used  to  practice  — 
religiously  —  pitching  with  my  left  hand. 

JOHN 

That  was  juvenile  foolishness. 

NATHANIEL 

Yes,  but  it  was  genuine. 

[John  starts  to  speak. 

What  am  I  now?     I  am  going  to  tell  you,  John 

—  by  and  by.     First,  we  must  dispose  of  the 

boy. 
JOHN 

I  shall  decide  about  the  boy. 

NATHANIEL 

No,  John;  the  boy  must  decide  for  himself. 

JOHN 

He'd  decide  to  be  an  actor. 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

NATHANIEL 

If  he  did,  what  of  it? 

JOHN 

I  want  members  of  my  family  to  do  useful  work. 

NATHANIEL 

What  is  useful  work?  An  actor  serves  his  pur 
pose  just  as  a  plumber  or  lawyer  serves  his. 
.  .  .  The  only  difference  is  that  all  of  us  are 
not  plumbers  or  lawyers  while  all  of  us  are 
actors.  Yes,  John,  we're  all  playing  something 
—  you  are  playing  at  head  of  the  family,  I'm  — 

JOHN 

Still  I  do  not  regard  acting  as  a  worth-while 
or  lucrative  profession. 

NATHANIEL 

You  never  know,  John.  .  .  .  Five  generations 
ago  the  Clays  were  respectable  carpenters. 
They  weren't  wealthy  and  they  gave  no  promise 
of  becoming  wealthy.  Then  suddenly  our  re 
vered  ancestor  became  a  successful  maker  of 
cypress  drain  pipes  —  sewer  pipes,  I  think  we 
used  to  call  them !  The  family  fortunes  were 
founded ! !  Our  ancestor  bought  a  high  hat 
and  the  esteem  of  his  neighbors.  Cypress  was 
in  time  replaced  by  pottery.  Conduits  for 
wires  and  terra  cotta  building  materials  were 
added  to  our  achievements  and  then  in  your 
regime  superfine  sewers  became  a  specialty. 

JOHN 

Every  kind  of  concrete  work ! 

NATHANIEL 

I  beg  your  pardon !  Concrete  sewers  and  other 
concrete  things. —  Such  is  the  foundation  of  the 
family. 

185 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JOHN 

You  are  evidently  ashamed  of  our  business. 

NATHANIEL 

Not  at  all,  but  I  cannot  consider  the  manufac 
turing  of  sewers  a  greater  achievement  than  act 
ing. 

JOHN 

Nathaniel,  are  you  an  actor? 

NATHANIEL 

No. 

JOHN 

What  are  you? 

NATHANIEL 

For  the  present  I  am  Jonathan's  uncle. 

JOHN 

You  have  nothing  to  do  with  Jonathan. 

NATHANIEL 

The  boy  is  not  going  to  Somerset  School. 

JOHN 

Nathaniel,  I  shall  not  tolerate  your  interfer 
ence.  Now  I  must  ask  you  to  leave  this  house. 

NATHANIEL 

What? 

LETITIA 

John  .  .  .  Nathaniel  .  .  .  my  boys,  it  isn't  my 
way  to  interfere;  but  please  for  my  sake,  for 
your  mother's  sake  —  think  what  you're  doing. 
JOHN  (With  some  tenderness  he  lays  his  hand 
on  Letitia's} 

I  have  thought,  Aunt  Letitia.  I  can  not  allow 
this  boy's  life  to  be  ruined  as  Emily's  and  Hen 
ry's  and  Nathaniel's  were. 

NATHANIEL 

Ruined?     John,  I'll  tell  you  how  ruined  my 
186 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

life  has  been  and  I'll  tell  you  in  terms  you'll 
understand.  My  income  last  year  was  over 
$350,000! 

JOHN 

Are  you  acting  now? 

NATHANIEL 

Yes,  I'm  acting  —  I'm  acting  in  terms  that  you 
will  understand.  .  .  .  You  know  that  I'm  your 
brother  Nathaniel.  Do  you  know  who  else 
I  am?  I  am  a  writer  and  a  playwright  and  a 
director  in  the  United  Baking  Company  and  a 
stockholder  in  ?he  National  Munitions  Com 
pany —  munitions,  John;  think  of  it,  millions, 
millions  in  them  —  and  I'm  willing  and  eager 
to  take  Emily's  boy  and  educate  him  in  the  way 
he  wants  to  live  his  life. 

JOHN 

What  are  these  heroics? 

NATHANIEL 

I  mean  what  I  say.     If  need  be  I  shall  use  brute 
force,  financial  force  or  any  kind  of  force  to 
free  Jonathan  from  the  misery  that  I  endured 
in  this  house. 
JOHN 

You  had  everything  you  wanted. 

NATHANIEL 

Everything  except  freedom  to  think  my  own 
thoughts.  John,  some  people  are  like  rein 
forced  concrete.  Someone  builds  the  iron 
frame  and  the  wooden  molds,  then  pours  the 
cement  and  when  it  has  hardened,  the  molds  are 
removed  and  lo,  you  have  a  monolith  —  a  solid 
unchangeable  stone. 

187 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JOHN 

You  talk  very  well,  Nathaniel,  but  I  shall 
insist  upon  bringing  up  my  sister's  child  in  my 
way. 

NATHANIEL 

Would  you  have  him  run  away  as  I  did? 
JOHN 

He  will  never  run  away  again.     He  has  had  his 

lesson. 

[Jonathan  enters  carrying  a  suit  case. 
JONATHAN 

May  I  speak  to  you,  Uncle  John? 

JOHN 

What  are  you  doing  with  that  suit  case? 

JONATHAN 

I'm  going  away. 

JOHN 

Who  gave  you  permission  ? 

JONATHAN 

Nobody.  .  .  I've  been  thinking  since  a  little 
while  ago  and  at  first  I  thought  I'd  run  away 
again;  but  that  wouldn't  be  quite  fair  —  so  I 
came  to  tell  you. 

JOHN 

Take  that  suit  case  back  into  the  house. 

JONATHAN 

No,  sir !     I'm  going  and  nobody  can  keep  me 
here  unless  they  tie  me. 
JOHN 

Well,  I'll  tell  you  one  thing  —  if  you  leave  this 
house  without  my  permission  I'll  cut  you  off 
without  a  penny  and  you'll  never  be  allowed  to 
come  back  again. 

188 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir.  I  know  that;  but  I'm  going  and  I 
came  to  tell  you  good-bye. 

JOHN 

Very  well.     You've  made  your  choice  —  and  I 
never  want  to  see  you  again  as  long  as  you  live. 
Good-bye,  Jonathan.     Good-bye,  Nathaniel. 
LETITIA 

John,  don't  say  things  you'll  regret.  Jonathan 
doesn't  mean  what  he's  saying. 

JONATHAN 

Yes'm,  I  do  mean  what  I  say. 
JOHN 

Good  night. 
[He  goes  out. 

LETITIA 

Boys,     you     are     so     hot-headed  —  so     much 
alike.  .  .  . 
NATHANIEL 

You  dear,  you  have  always  been  content  to  com 
promise  while  we  two  must  go  our  own  ways  or 
not  at  all.  You  go  to  John.  Help  him  as  you 
can.  He's  not  a  bad  man  —  he's  just  a  struc 
ture  of  reinforced  concrete.  You  love  John 
and  he  in  his  way  loves  you.  Go  to  John  and 
comfort  his  outraged  authority. 

LETITIA 

I'm   sorry  things   have   turned   out   this  way. 

(She  kisses  them)  Good  night,  my  dears. 
Wait  until  morning  if  you  can,  my  darling  Na 
thaniel. 

[She  goes  out. 

NATHANIEL 

Now  you've  done  it! 

189 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

I  couldn't  help  it. 

NATHANIEL 

What  are  you  going  to  do  ? 

JONATHAN 

I  don't  know.  .  .  .  They  say  there's  plenty  of 
work  on  farms. 

NATHANIEL 

You  can't  write  if  you  work  on  a  farm. 

JONATHAN 

I  can  earn  some  more  money  and  save.  Other 
boys  have  worked  their  way  through  school  and 
college.  I  can  do  that. 

NATHANIEL 

Of  course  —  that  is  a  way  out  of  it.     Yes  .  .  . 

of  course.  .   .  . 

[Nathaniel    opens    the    back    doors    and   sees 

the    thinnest    crescent    moon    hanging    in    the 

sky. 

The  new  moon.   .  .  .  They  say  if  you  make  a 

wish  on  the  new  moon  it  will  come  true. 

JONATHAN 

You  have  to  see  it  over  your  right  shoulder. 

NATHANIEL 

You  saw  it  over  your  right  shoulder. 

JONATHAN 

I  don't  believe  that,  do  you? 

NATHANIEL 

Well,  suppose  it  were  true,  what  would  you 
wish? 

JONATHAN 

You  mean  for  right  away? 

NATHANIEL 

Yes. 

190 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN     (carefully    looking    over    his    right 
shoulder. 
I'd  wish  to  be  with  you. 

NATHANIEL 

More  than  anything? 

JONATHAN 

Yes,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

More  than  being  a  writer  or  a  theatre  director 
or  an  actor? 
JONATHAN 

Oh,  yes,  I'm  too  young  to  start  right  away.     I 
have  to  have  an  education  first. 
NATHANIEL 

Suppose  that  wish  couldn't  be,  then  what  would 
you  wish? 

JONATHAN 

That  you'd  write  me  long  letters  and  let  me 
write  you  long  letters. 
[  Takes  up  his  suit  case. 
I'd  better  be  going  now. 

NATHANIEL 

Aren't  you  going  to  tell  John  and  Aunt  Letitia 
good-bye  ? 
JONATHAN 

No,  sir.     I  don't  think  I'd  better.     Uncle  John 
doesn't  care  and  Aunt  Letitia  will  understand. 
NATHANIEL 

Yes,  she  always  understands  somehow. 

JONATHAN 

Good-bye,  sir. 

NATHANIEL 

Jonathan,  suppose  we  go  away  together.     I'm 
not  wanted  and  you're  not  wanted. 
191 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

You're  going  to  Paris  to  marry  Mile.  Perrault! 

NATHANIEL 

Would  you  let  me  be  your  father,  Jonathan? 

JONATHAN 

Sir? 

NATHANIEL 

You  shall  go  to  the  schools  where  you  will 
find  the  work  you  want.  .  .  .  Will  you  be  my 
son? 

JONATHAN 

Do  you  like  me  that  much? 

NATHANIEL 

I  like  you  more  than  that  much.  You'll  get 
some  long  trousers  and  we'll  plan  and  plan. 
Suppose  we  run  away  together. 

JONATHAN 

Do  you  think  we  ought  to  leave  some  word, 
Uncle  Nathaniel? 

NATHANIEL 

Of  course.     How  stupid  of  me. 

JONATHAN 

You  write  it. 

NATHANIEL 

No,  we'll  both  write  it. 

JONATHAN 

I  don't  know  what  to  say.     I've  only  run  away 
once. 
NATHANIEL 

So  have  I. 

JONATHAN 

Did  you  ever  run  away? 

NATHANIEL 

Yes  —  when  I  was  eighteen. 
192 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

JONATHAN 
Oh! 

NATHANIEL  (taking  up  paper) 
The  message  ought  to  be  short 

JONATHAN 

Why  did  you  run  away? 
NATHANIEL 

I  wanted  to  write. 

JONATHAN 

You  did! 

NATHANIEL 

Didn't  you  know  I  ran  away? 

JONATHAN 

No,  sir;  they  never  would  tell  me  what  became 
of  you. 

NATHANIEL 

They  didn't  know. 
JONATHAN 

How  could  you  keep  it  from  them? 

NATHANIEL 

I  changed  my  name  —  Mr.  Alexander  Jeffer 
son,  Sr!     What  shall  I  say? 
JONATHAN 

I  can't  think.  .  .  Did  Uncle  John  lock  you  in? 

NATHANIEL 

No,  I  just  ran  away. 

JONATHAN 

How  long  did  it  take  you  to  make  up  your  mind 
to  go? 

NATHANIEL 

I  thought  about  it  first  when  I  was  twelve.     My 
father  was  still  living  then. 
JONATHAN 

Did  you  go  to  Somerset  School? 
193 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

NATHANIEL 

Yes  —  for  three  years. 

JONATHAN 

What  did  you  do  after  you  ran  away? 

NATHANIEL 

I  had  a  very  hard  time,  my  boy  —  at  first.  I 
worked  at  anything  I  could  get,  then  I  got  into 
a  newspaper  office,  then  I  wrote  "  autobiog 
raphies  "  of  famous  men. 

JONATHAN 

I  thought  you  had  to  write  your  own  autobiog 
raphy  — 
NATHANIEL 

Not  nowadays.  Then  I  wrote  some  successful 
short  stories,  then  some  very  successful  long 
ones  —  and  now  I  am  independent;  but  it  took 
me  ten  bitter  years  to  make  my  first  success. 
.  .  .  What  shall  I  write  here? 

JONATHAN 

I  never  could  think  of  things  to  say  when  I  was 
going  away. 

NATHANIEL 

Neither  could  I. 

JONATHAN 

Don't  you  think  "  good-bye  "  would  be  enough? 
NATHANIEL   (writing) 

Capital.  ..."  Good-Bye  —  Nathaniel."  Now 
you  sign  it. 

JONATHAN       (Signs) 

"  Jonathan."   .  .   .  Maybe  we  ought  to  put  a 
line  under  it  so  Aunt  Letitia  won't  feel  so  bad. 
NATHANIEL  (makes  a  line} 

Dear  Aunt  Letitia  will  understand.     She  is  the 
blessed  kind  who  always  does.     Now,  where 
194 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

shall  we   put   it?  ...  On  John's   chair,    and 
maybe  he'll  understand  too. 
[He  pins  the  note  to  John's  chair. 

JONATHAN 

Don't  you  want  to  pack  your  things? 

NATHANIEL 

I'll  wire  for  them. 

[Susan  enters. 

On  second  thought,  I'll  ask  Aunt  Letitia  to  send 

them. 

[He  goes  out. 

JONATHAN 

Hello,  Susan. 

SUSAN 

Jonathan,  I  just  saw  Miss  Letitia  and  she  was 
crying.  .  .  .  What's  the  matter? 

JONATHAN 

I'm  going  away,  Susan. 
SUSAN 

Where  are  you  going? 

JONATHAN 

I'm  going  with  Uncle  Nathaniel.  I'm  going  to 
be  his  son.  And  I'm  going  to  a  fine  prep, 
school  and  learn  to  write  and  do  what  I  like. 

SUSAN 

When  are  you  coming  back? 

JONATHAN 

I  don't  know.     When  I'm  older  maybe. 

SUSAN 

Can't  we  write  any  more  songs? 

JONATHAN 

I'll  send  some  words  to  you  in  letters. 

SUSAN 

Will  you  write  every  week? 
195 


MORE  PORTMANTEAU  PLAYS 

JONATHAN 

Yes.  .  .  .  Will  you? 

SUSAN 

Yes.     I  wish  I  was  going,  too. 

JONATHAN 

So  do  I. 

SUSAN 

Maybe  I'll  come  to  see  you  graduate. 

JONATHAN 

That  will  be  fine  ! 

SUSAN      (She  kisses  him  very  simply) 
Good-bye,  Jonathan. 

JONATHAN 

Good-bye,  Susan. 

SUSAN 

I  can  hardly  wait  until  you  graduate. 

JONATHAN 

Neither  can  I.  ...  Good-bye. 
[Nathaniel  enters. 

NATHANIEL 

On  third  thought,   I  decided  to  wire  for  my 
things. 

SUSAN 

Good-bye,  Mr.  Nathaniel.     I  hope  you'll  have 
a  nice  time. 

NATHANIEL 

Good-bye,  Susan. 

[He  kisses  her.     She  goes  out. 

JONATHAN 

Good-bye,  Susan. 
SUSAN  (calling) 

Send  me  some  picture  postcards,  Jonathan. 

JONATHAN 

I  will. 

196 


JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 

[He  watches  her. 
NATHANIEL      (Goes  to  window) 

Don't  you  want  to  make  your  wish  on  the  new 
moon,  Jonathan? 

JONATHAN 

I  don't  know  what  to  wish  now.     The  only  one 
I  could  think  of  has  come  true. 

NATHANIEL 

Good  .  .  .  come,  my  boy. 

JONATHAN 

I'll  write  a  long  letter  to  Susan  Sample  every 
week. 

NATHANIEL 

You  can  write  her  a  long  letter  from  New  York. 

JONATHAN 

And  I  can  send  her  picture  postcards  from  every 

place  we  go  to. 

[Arm  in  arm  they  go  out  talking. 


The  Curtain  Falls. 


197 


APPENDIX 


APPENDIX 


A.  M.  PALMER  — AUTHOR'S  MATINEES 

Madison  Square  Theater  1887 

MARJORIE'S  LOVERS Brander  Matthews 

ELAINE  (from  Tennyson)  .  .    G.  P.  Lathrop 
A  FOREGONE  CONCLUSION.   W.  D.  Howells 

THE  THEATER  OF  ARTS  AND  LETTERS 

2 3rd  Street  Theater  1891 

GILES  COREY Mary  E.  Wilkins 

SQUIRREL  INN  (from  Frank 

Stockton)     Frank  Presbrey 

THE  OTHER  WOMAN Richard  Harding 

Davis 

HARVEST    Clyde  Fitch 

THE     DECISION     OF     THE 

COURT    Brander  Matthews 

Frederick!. Stimson 

THE  CRITERION  INDEPENDENT 
THEATER 

Madison  Square  Theater  1897 

Berkeley  Lyceum 

JOHN  GABRIEL  BJORKMAN.  Ibsen 

THE  RIGHTS  OF  THE  SOUL  Giacosa 

THAT  OVERCOAT Augustus   Thomas 

FROM  A  CLEAR  SKY  Henri  Dumay 

EL  GRAN  GALEOTO Echegaray 

201 


APPENDIX 


THE  INDEPENDENT  THEATER 

Carnegie  Lyceum  1899 

EL  GRAN  GALEOTO Echegaray 

TIES    Hervieu 

THE  MASTER  BUILDER    .  .  Ibsen 

THE  STORM   Ostrovsky 

THE  HEATHER  FIELD    .  .  .  Martyn 

A  TROUBADOUR Coppe 

THE  NEW  THEATER 

1909-1911 
First  Season 

ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA  .  .   Shakespeare 
THE  COTTAGE  IN  THE  AIR  .   Knoblauch 

STRIFE    Galsworthy 

THE  NIGGER       Sheldon 

THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL  Sheridan 

Liz  THE  MOTHER Fenn  and  Bryce 

DON    Besier 

TWELFTH  NIGHT Shakespeare 

THE  WITCH  (adapted  from 

Scandinavian  by Hagadorn    (Wiers- 

Jenssen) 

BRAND      (act     IV     con 
densed)     Ibsen 

SISTER  BEATRICE    Maeterlinck 

THE  WINTER'S  TALE Shakespeare 

BEETHOVEN    Fauchois 

Second  Season 

THE  BLUE  BIRD   Maeterlinck 

THE     MERRY     WIVES     OF 

WINDSOR    Shakespeare 

202 


APPENDIX 


THE  THUNDERBOLT   Pinero 

DON    Besier 

SISTER  BEATRICE Maeterlinck 

MARY  MAGDALENE Maeterlinck 

OLD  HEIDELBERG Meyer-Foerster 

VANITY  FAIR R.  Hichens  and  C. 

Gordan  Lennox 

THE  PIPER Marks 

NOBODY'S  DAUGHTER Paston 

THE  ARROW  MAKER Austin 

In  addition  there  was  a  borrowed  production  of 
A  SONG  OF  THE  PEOPLE  .  .  .    Michaelis 

MISS  GRACE  GEORGE  — THE 
PLAYHOUSE 

The  Playhouse  1915-1917 

1st  Season 

THE  NEW  YORK  IDEA  .  .  .   Mitchell 

THE  LIARS Jones 

EARTH    Pagan 

MAJOR  BARBARA Shaw 

CAPTAIN  BRASSBOUND'S 

CONVERSION Shaw 

2nd  Season 

EVE'S  DAUGHTER    Ramsey 

ELEVATION Bernstein 

WASHINGTON  SQUARE  PLAYERS  * 
Bandbox  and  Comedy  Theaters  1915-1917 

INTERIOR    Maeterlinck 

1  Taken  from  Prof.  Dickenson's  book,  "  The  Insurgent 
Theater,"  in  which  a  number  of  interesting  and  more  recent 
repertories  of  "  independent  "  theaters  are  given. 

203 


APPENDIX 


EUGENICALLY  SPEAKING  .  .    Goodman 

LICENSED    Lawrence 

ANOTHER  INTERIOR 

LOVE  OF  ONE'S  NEIGHBOR  .    Andreyev 

MOONDOWN    Reed 

MY  LADY'S  HONOR Pemberton 

Two  BLIND  BEGGARS  AND  . 

ONE  LESS  BLIND Moeller 

THE  SHEPHERD  IN  THE  DIS 
TANCE   (pantomime)    .  .  .   Hudson 
THE  MIRACLE  OF  ST.  AN 
TONY  Maeterlinck 

,!N  APRIL   Stokes 

FORBIDDEN  FRUIT Feulllet 

SAVIOURS    Goodman 

THE  BEAR   Tchekhov 

HELENA'S  HUSBAND Moeller 

FIRE  AND  WATER White 

THE  ANTICK MacKaye 

A  NIGHT  OF  SNOWS Bracco 

LITERATURE  .....  .1 Schnitzler 

THE  HONOURABLE  LOVER  .   Bracco 

WHIMS    Musset 

OVERTONES     Gerstenberg 

I    THE  CLOD   .  . Beach 

THE   ROAD-HOUSE   IN  AR- 

DEN .    Moeller 

THE  TENOR     Wedekmd 

THE    RED    CLOAK    (panto 
mime)    . Meyer 

CHILDREN     Bolton  and  Carlton 

THE  AGE  OF  REASON    .  .  .   Dorrian 

THE  MAGICAL  CITY Akins 

MONSIEUR  PIERRE  PATELIN  . . . 

204 


APPENDIX 


AGLAVAINE  AND  SELYSETTE  Maeterlinck 

THE  SEA  GULL Tchekhov 

A  MERRY  DEATH Evreinev 

LOVER'S  LUCK Porto-Riche 

THE  SUGAR  HOUSE    .....   Brown 

SISTERS  OF  SUSANNA Moeller 

BUSHIDO Izumo 

TRIFLES    Glaspell 

ANOTHER  WAY  OUT Langner 

ALTRUISM     Ettlinger 

THE  DEATH  OF  TINTAGILES  Maeterlinck 

THE  LAST  STRAW    Crocker 

THE  HERO  OF  SANTA  MA 
RIA    Goodman  and 

Hecht 

IMPUDENCE    Auernheimer 

PLOTS  AND  PLAYWRIGHTS  .   Massey 

THE  LIFE  OF  MAN Andreyev 

SGANARELLE     Moliere 

THE  POOR  FOOL Bahr 

GHOSTS Ibsen 

PARIAH Strindberg 

REPERTORY  OF  THE  STUART  WALKER 
COMPANY 

THE  TRIMPLET Walker 

A  FAN  AND  Two  CANDLE-. 

STICKS MacMillan 

Six  WHO  PASS  WHILE  THE 

LENTILS  BOIL Walker 

THE  SEVEN  GIFTS    (a  pan 
tomime)    Walker 

THE  MOON  LADY  (a  panto 
mime)    Walker 

205 


APPENDIX 


NEVERTHELESS Walker 

GAMMER  GURTON'S  NEEDLE 

(adapted  by  Mr.  Walker)    Stevenson 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  WEEPING 

WILLOW  TREE Walker 

THE  GOLDEN  DOOM Dunsany 

VOICES    Flexner 

THE  CRIER  BY  NIGHT Bottomley 

THE  GODS  OF  THE  MOUN 
TAIN  Dunsany 

THE  MEDICINE  SHOW    .  .  .   Walker 

THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY  .  .   Walker 

THE  BIRTHDAY  OF  THE  IN 
FANTA  (from  Oscar 
Wilde's  story)  Walker 

KING  ARGIMENES  AND  THE 

UNKNOWN  WARRIOR  .  .  .   Dunsany 

IT  PAYS  TO  ADVERTISE  ....   Megrue 

THE  DUMMY O'Higgins  and  Ford 

THE  CONCERT Bahr 

KICK  IN Mack 

SEVENTEEN    Walker 

SEVEN  KEYS  TO  BALDPATE  .    Cohan 

THE  COUNTRY  BOY Selwyn 

You  NEVER  CAN  TELL  .  .  .  Shaw 

OFFICER  666    McHugh 

BROADWAY  JONES    Cohan 

THE  WOMAN DeMllle 

THE  SHOW  SHOP    Forbes 

A  NIGHT  IN  AVIGNON  ....   Rice 

THE  SON  OF  Isis    Kelly 

STINGY    Parry 

THE  BOOK  OF  JOB 

ROMANCE   Sheldon 

206 


APPENDIX 


STOP  THIEF Moore 

THE  HERO     Brown 

THE  MISLEADING  LADY  .  .    Goddard   and   Dic 
key 
ALIAS    JIMMY    VALENTINE 

(from  O.  Henry's  story)    Armstrong 

PASSERS  BY Chambers 

SEVEN  UP    Coleman 

THE  THREE  OF  Us    Crothers 

THE  FORTUNE  HUNTER    .   Smith 
ALICE  SIT  BY  THE  FIRE  .  .  .   Barrie 
THE  WORKHOUSE  WARD  .    Gregory 

THE  WOLF    Walter 

THE  TRUTH    Fitch 

JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH  Walker 
THE    LAUGHTER    OF    THE 

GODS Dunsany 

THE  TENTS  OF  THE  ARABS.   Dunsany 
THE  CINDERELLA  MAN  .  .  .   Carpenter 
GOOD  GRACIOUS  ANNABELLE  Kummer 

LEAH  KLESCHNA MacClellan 

OVER  NIGHT Bartholomae 

THE  PASSING  OF  THE  THIRD 

FLOOR  BACK Jerome 

MILESTONES Bennett    and    Kno- 

block 

KISMET Knoblock 

DON    Besier 

THE  GIBSON  UPRIGHT  ....    Tarkington  and  Ail- 
son 

THE  MURDERERS Dunsany 

Too  MANY  COOKS  .  .   Craven 


207 


CASTS 

THE  LADY  OF  THE  WEEPING  WILLOW  TREE 
CAST  FOR  OPENING 

O-SODE    Harrie  Fumade 

O-KATsu     Annie  Lowry 

OBAA-SAN Florence  Wallers  en 

THE  GAKI  OF  KOKORU  .  .  .   McKay  Morris 

AOYAGI    Nancy  Winston 

RIKI    Wilmol  Heitland 

THE  VERY  NAKED  BOY 

CAST    FOR   OPENING 

HE    Willard  Webster 

SHE Dorothea  Carothers 

BOY Gregory  Kelly 

JONATHAN  MAKES  A  WISH 
NEW  YORK  CAST 

AUNT  LETITIA Elizabeth  Patterson 

SUSAN  SAMPLE Beatrice  Maude 

UNCLE  NATHANIEL    George  Gaul 

UNCLE  JOHN Ainsworth  Arnold 

JONATHAN    Gregory  Kelly 

MLLE.  PERRAULT   Margaret  Mower 

HANK Edgar  Stehli 

ALBERT  PEET Joseph  Graham 

MARY   Elizabeth  Black 

JOHN  III John  Talbott 

First  produced  at  the  Murat  Theatre,  Indian 
apolis,  August  12,  1918. 

208 


APPENDIX 


At  the  Princess  Theatre,  New  York  premiere, 
September  n,  1918,  Elizabeth  Patterson  played 
Aunt  Letitia,  which  was  played  in  Indianapolis  by 
Judith  Lowry. 


209 


Stewart  Kidd  Dramatic  Anthologies 

Fifty  Contemporary  One-Act  Plays 

Edited  by 
FRANK  SHAY  and  PIERRE  LOVING 

THIS  volume  contains  FIFTY  REPRESENTATIVE  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 
of  the  MODERN  THEATER,  chosen  from  the  dramatic  works  of  con 
temporary  writers  all  over  the  world  and  is  the  second  volume  in  the 
Stewart  Kidd  Dramatic  Anthologies,  the  first  being  European  Theories  of  the 
Drama,  by  Barrett  H.  Clark,  which  has  been  so  enthusiastically  received. 

The  editors  have  scrupulously  sifted  countless  plays  and  have  selected  the 
best  available  in  English.  One-half  the  plays  have  never  before  been  pub 
lished  in  book  form;  thirty-one  are  no  longer  available  in  any  other  edition. 
The  work  satisfies  a  long-felt  want  for  a  handy  collection  of  the  choicest 
plays  produced  by  the  art  theaters  all  over  the  world.  It  is  a  complete  reper 
tory  for  a  little  theater,  a  volume  for  the  study  of  the  modern  drama,  a  rep 
resentative  collection  of  the  world's  best  short  plays. 

CONTENTS 


AUSTRIA 

Schnitzler    (Arthur)— Literature 
BELGIUM 

Maeterlinck    (Maurice)— The    Intruder 
BOLIVIA 

More  (Federico) — Interlude 
DENMARK 

Wied   (Gustave) — Autumn  Fires 
FRANCE 

Ancey  (Georges) — M.  Lamb  1  in 

Porto- Riche  (Georges  de) — Francoise'  Luck 
GERMANY 

Ettinger  (Karl) — Altruism 

von  Hofmannsthal  (Hugo) — Madonna  Dia- 
nora 

Wedekind  (Frank)— The  Tenor 
GREAT   BRITAIN 

Bennett    (Arnold)— A   Good   Woman 

Calderon  (George)— The  Little  Stone  House 

Cannan  (Gilbert)— Mary's  Wedding 

Dowson  (Ernest) — The  Pierrot  of  the  Min 
ute 

Ellis    (Mrs.    Havelock)— The    Subjection 
of  Kezia 

Hankin  (St.  John) — The  Constant  Lover 
HOLLAND 

Speenhoff  (J.  H.)— Louise 
HUNGARY 

Biro   (Lajos) — The   Grandmother 
INDIA 

Mukerji  (Dhan  Gopal) — The  Judgment  of 

Indra 
IRELAND 

Gregory   (Lady) — The  Workhouse  Ward 
ITALY 

Giacosa  (Giuseppe)— The  Rights  of  the  Soul 
RUSSIA 

Andreyev  (Leonid) — Love  of  One's  Neigh 
bor 

Tchekoff  (Anton)— The  Boor 


SPAIN 

Benavente   (Jacinto)— His  Widow's  Hus 
band 
Quintero  (Serafin  and  Joaquln  Alvarez-) 

— A  Sunny  Morning 
SWEDEN 

Strindberg  (August) — The  Creditor 
UNITED  STATES 

Beach  (Lewis) — Brothers 
Cowan  (Sada) — In  the  Morgue 
Crocker  (Bosworth) — The  Baby  Carriage 
Cronyn  (George  W.) — A  Death  in  Fever 

Flat 
Davies   (Mary  Carolyn) — The  Slave  with 

Two  Faces 

Day  (Frederick  L.) — The  Slump 
Planner    (Hildegarde) — Mansions 
Glaspell    (Susan)— Trifles 
Gerstenberg    (Alice) — The  Pot  Boiler 
Helburn  (Theresa) — Enter  the  Hero 
Hudson    (Holland)— The  Shepherd  in  the 

Distance 

Kemp    (Harry)— Boccaccio's  Untold  Tale 
Langner    (Lawrence) — Another   Way  Out 
MacMillan    (Mary)— The  Shadowed  Star 
Millay  (Edna  St.  Vincent)— Aria  da  Capo 
Moeller    (Philip)— Helena's   Husband 
O'Neill  (Eugene)— He 
Stevens    (Thomas   Wood)— The    Nursery 

Maid  of  Heaven 
Stevens  (Wallace)— Three  Travelers  Watch 

a  Sunrise 

Tompkins  (Frank  G.) — Sham 
Walker  (Stuart)— The  Medicine  Show 
Wellman  (Rita)— For  All  Time 
Wilde  (Percival)— The  Finger  of  God 

YIDDISH 

Asch  (Sholom)— Night 

Pinski  (David)— Forgotten  Souli 


Large  8vo,  585  pages.     Net,  $5.00 
$4  Turkey  Morocco  $10.00 


STEWART  KIDD 


PUBLISHERS 


Stewart  Kidd  Dramatic  Anthologies 

TWENTY  CONTEMPORARY  ONE-ACT  PLAYS 
AMERICAN 

Edited  by  FRANK  SHAY 

THIS  volume  represents  a  careful  and  intelligent  selection  of 
the  best  One-act  Plays  written  by  Americans  and  produced 
by  the  Little  Theatres  in  America  during  the  season  of  1 92 1 . 
They  are  representative  of  the  best  work  of  writers  in  this  field 
and  show  the  high  level  to  which  the  art  theatre  has  risen  in 
America. 

The  editor  has  brought  to  his  task  a  love  of  the  theatre  and 
a  knowledge  of  what  is  best  through  long  association  with  the 
leading  producing  groups. 

The  volume  contains  the  repertoires  of  the  leading  Little 
Theatres,  together  with  bibliographies  of  published  plays  and 
books  on  the  theatre  issued  since  January,  1920, 

Aside  from  its  individual  importance,  the  volume,  together 
with  Fifty  Contemporary  One-Act  Plays,  will  make  up  the 
most  important  collection  of  short  plays  published. 

In  the  Book  are 
the  following  Plays  by  the  following  Authors 

Mirage George  M.  P.  Baird 

Napoleon's  Barber Arthur  Caeser 

Goat  Alley Ernest  Howard  Culbertson 

Sweet  and  Twenty Floyd  Dell 

Tickless  Time Susan  Glaspell  and  George  Cram  Cook 

The  Hero  of  Santa  Maria ....  Kenneth  Sawyer  Goodman  and 

Ben  Hecht 

All  Gummed  Up Harry  Wagstaff  Gribble 

Thompson's  Luck Harry  Greenwood  Crover 

Fata  Deorum Carl  W.  Guske 

Pearl  of  Dawn Holland  Hudson 

Finders-Keepers George  Kelly 

Solomon's  Song Harry  Kemp 

Matinata Lawrence  Langner 

The  Conflict Clarice  Vallette  McCauley 

Two  Slatterns  and  a  King Edna  St.  Vincent  Millay 

Thursday  Evening Christopher  Morlev 

The  Dreamy  Kid Eugene  O'Neill 

Forbidden  Fruit George  J .  Smith 

Jezebel Dorothy  Stockbridge 

Sir  David  Wears  a  Crown Stuart  Walker 

i2mo.     Silk  Cloth   $  3.75 
34  Turkey  Morocco  $10.00 

STEWART  KIDD  PUBLISHERS 


PLAYS 
FOR  A  FOLDING  THEATRE 

By  Colin  Campbell  Clements 

Frontispiece  by  Ralph  Barton 

The  seven  plays  contained  in  this  book  can  be  produced 
in  any  theatre  and  on  any  stage,  no  matter  how  inflexible. 
There  are  three  Pierrot-Columbine  plays,  three  plays  of 
the  East,  and  one  of  the  sea — all  of  them  artistic  and 
planned,  as  the  title  suggests,  for  production  on  small 
stages.  For  several  of  the  plays  Mr.  Clements  has  de 
signed  sets.  Three  Lepers  of  Suk-El-Garab  is  being  pro 
duced  this  winter  in  the  new  French  Theatre  in  Beyrouth, 
Syria,  where  Mr.  Clements  was  living  when  he  wrote  the 
play  several  years  ago. 

The  plays  are:  Pierrot  in  Paris.  A  morality  play  in 
one  act,  the  moral  being  that  he  also  sees  who  only  sits 
and  sits.  In  a  little  French  cafe  one  night  all  life  comes 
to  Pierrot  .  .  .  and  passes  him  by.  20  minutes. 
(2  m.  3  w.)  Columbine.  A  play  in  one  act,  wherein  is 
shown  that  Love's  experience  can't  teach  Love's  inexpe 
rience  nor  thwart  its  verdant  hope.  25  minutes.  (2  w.) 
The  Return  of  Harlequin.  A  play  in  one  act,  with  Har 
lequin  just  returned  from  the  war  and  face  to  face  with 
an  unexpected  adventure — a  little  Harlequin.  20  min 
utes,  (i  m.  i  w.)  Three  Lepers  of  Suk-El-Garab.  A 
drama  in  one  act,  with  all  the  color,  music,  and  fatalism 
of  the  East.  25  minutes.  (3  m.)  The  Desert.  A  drama 
in  one  act,  based  on  an  old  Arabic  legend  told  to  the 
author  one  day  in  Damascus  by  an  Arab  sheik.  25  min 
utes.  (3  m.  6  w.)  The  Siege.  A  drama  in  one  act,  on 
an  actual  experience  in  Arabia  in  1920.  Henry  Bordeaux., 
of  the  French  Academy,  says  of  it:  "I  should  like  to  see 
it  done  in  French.  Mr.  Clements  makes  one  feel  that 
thing  that  is  the  East."  20  minutes.  (3  w.)  Moon  Tide. 
A  play  in  one  act  in  which  the  sea  "  crawlin'  up  out  of 
the  black  mud"  avenges  the  murder  of  Old  Hank,  who 
"loved  her  as  if  she  was  human  flesh  and  blood."  20 
minutes.  (2  m.) 

Silk  Cloth.     165  pages,     izmo.     $2.00. 

24  Turkey  Morocco,  $7.50. 
STEWART  KIDD  PUBLISHERS 


GOAT  ALLEY 

By  Ernest  Howard  Culbertson 

Introduction  by  Ludwig  Lewisohn 

A  drama  of  Negro  life  in  three  acts.  First  presented  at 
the  Bijou  Theatre,  New  York  City,  in  June,  1921.  (7  m. 
4  w.)  New  York  Tribune:  "A  stunning  tragedy.  In  the 
characterization  there  is  fine  perception  and  vivid  writing. 
There  is  heartbreak  in  this  play."  Oakland  Tribune: 
"Splendidly  and  heroically  written.  A  play  to  meditate 
over."  Winnipeg  Tribune:  "A  play  that  hurts,  like  'John 
Ferguson,'  from  first  to  last."  Ludwig  Lewisohn:  "Every 
triangle  play  is  a  'Medea.'  There  are  subjects  that  are 
classical  because  they  are  native  to  the  character  and  cir 
cumstances  of  mankind.  Such  is  the  subject  of  Goat 
Alley.  No  American  play  has  had  a  finer  or  truer  moment 
than  that  at  the  end  of  the  second  act  when  Lucy  Belle, 
her  lodger  lost,  her  money  stolen,  her  child  crying  with 
hunger,  consents  quietly,  yet  in  such  despair,  to  rent  her 
vacant  room  to  the  worthless,  ingratiating  barber.  Haupt- 
mann  would  not  have  disdained  that  quiet  moment  of 
rich,  tragic  implications;  Galsworthy  would  have  approved 
it.'  Tuskegee  Student:  "A  brilliant  and  bitter  drama  .  .  . 
strong,  vividly  dramatic,  absorbing  and  well  written  in  the 
natural  Negro  dialect  and  colloquialism  of  today.  We 
marvel  at  Mr.  Culbertson's  familiar  acquaintance  with  the 
Negro  and  Negro  speech."  George  Jean  Nathan:  "Prob 
ably  the  most  acute  transcription  of  the  Negro  yet  made 
visible  in  our  native  dramatic  literature."  Walter  Prichard 
Eaton:  "A  real  American  tragedy  .  .  .  simply,  directly, 
pitifully  true."  New  York  Herald:  "The  characters  have 
the  breath  of  life."  Cleveland  Plain  Dealer:  "As  important 
a  contribution  to  American  dramatic  literature,  we  should 
say,  as  anything  of  O'Neill's." 

Silk  Cloth.     1 5 5  pages.     i2mo.     $1.7$. 
^4  Turkey  Morocco,  $7.50. 

STEWART  KIDD  PUBLISHERS 


THREE  ONE- ACT  PLAYS 

By  Stark  Young 

Dramatic  Critic  of  "The  New  Republic." 

Theatre  Arts  Magazine :  "The  material  for  the  plays  is  well 
chosen  from  corners  of  our  American  life  not  too  familiar. 
They  are  all  tragedies  of  character,  all  built  on  the  theme 
of  sacrifice  for  love,  swift-moving,  real,  and  convincing. 
The  characters  are  individuals  and  not  types,  and  every 
one  is  a  part  worth  playing."  Dallas  Morning  News: 
"Instinct  with  tragedy — dramatic,  poetic — with  a  strong 
appeal  to  the  heart.  All  of  them  lend  themselves  admir 
ably  to  use  in  Little  Theatres,  and  all  are  delightful  as 
reading  plays."  Oakland  Tribune:  "Admirably  adapted 
for  Little  Theatre  production." 

The  plays:  Madretta.  (2  m.  i  w.)  At  the  Shrine. 
(i  m.  i  w.)  Addio.  (3  m.  i  w.) 

Silk  doth.     66  pages.     i2tno.    $1.35. 
y^,  Turkey  Morocco,  $7.50. 

RED  BUD  WOMEN 

By  Mark  O'Dea 

Foreword  by  Pierre  Loving 

Four  one-act  plays  which  present  the  tragic  spiritual 
wastes  of  farm  and  village  life.  They  have  all  been  pro 
duced  by  Little  Theatres.  El  Paso  Times:  "Powerful, 
vivid,  and  unusually  sincere.  O'Dea  has  done  for  farm 
women  what  Sinclair  Lewis  did  for  small-town  women  in 
'Main  Street.'"  Harry  Hansen,  of  the  Chicago  Daily  News: 
"O'Dea 's  plays  are  worthy  of  a  place  beside  those  of 
Eugene  O'Neill,  for  O'Dea  is  one  of  the  few  native  drama 
tists  who  share  with  O'Neill  the  ability  to  wrest  from  our 
own  soil  themes  of  tremendous  power."  W.  L.  George: 
"I  recommend  'Red  Bud  Women  because  of  its  deep  sin 
cerity,  its  dramatic  power,  and  its  great  intensity." 

The  plays:  The  Song  of  Solomon.  (zm.3W.)  Shivaree. 
(2  m.  2  w.)  Miss  Myrtle  Says  "Yes."  (i  m.  3  w.)  Not 
in  the  Lessons.  A  farce.  &  m.  ^  w.) 

Silk  Cloth.     12}  pages.     i2mo.     $2.00. 
}4  Turkey  Morocco,  $7.50. 

STEWART  KIDD  PUBLISHERS 


FIVE  ONE-ACT 
COMEDIES 

By  Lawrence  Langner 
Introduction  by  St.  John  Ervine 

rT"'HESE  one-act  comedies  have  unusual  variety 
••-  and  originality,  and  have  been  produced  suc 
cessfully  by  the  Washington  Square  Players,  the 
Provincetown  Players,  and  other  theatre  groups 
throughout  the  country.  Mr.  Langner  posesses  that 
gift  which  is  rarest  in  American  playwrights  —  a 
keen  sense  of  satire  and  a  sure  touch.  His  comedies, 
which  read  as  well  as  they  act,  show  a  humorous 
understanding  of  human  relations  and  institutions. 
Mr.  Langner  was  one  of  the  founders  of  the  Wash 
ington  Square  Players  and  the  Theatre  Guild,  and 
is  a  pioneer  in  the  new  theatre  movement  in  Amer 
ica.  As  George  Jean  Nathan  says:  "This  Langner 
will  bear  watching.  He  is  a  fellow  of  ideas  and 
genuine  humor." 

The  plays  are:   Matinata  (2  m.  i  w.)     Another 
Way  Out  (2  m.  3  w.)  The  Family  Exit  (4  m.  3  w.) 

Pie  (2  m.  2  w.)  Licensed  (i  m.  2  w.)  Roscoe  W. 
Brink  in  the  New  York  Tribune:  "Smart,  finished 
and  polished  things  they  are."  Houston  Post :  "Re 
freshing  plays,  streaked  with  humor  and  original 
ity."  New  York  Evening  Post:  "Sure  comedy 
touch,  clever  dialogue  and  actable  scenes."  Qeorge 
Bernard  Shaw,  in  a  tetter  to  the  author :  "The  plays 
are  very  good  :  I  read  them  all  through  with  undi- 
minished  appetite  ;  and  so  did  my  wife." 

Silk  Cloth.     165  pages.     i2tno.    $2.00. 
}4  Turkey  Morocco,  $7.50. 

STEWART  KIDD  PUBLISHERS 


Plays  by  Mary  MacMillan 


For  Women's  Clubs,  Girls'  Schools,  etc. — "In  all  of 
them  will  be  found  a  rich  and  delicate  charm,  a  bountiful 
endowment  of  humor  and  wit,  a  penetrating  knowledge  of 
human  nature,  and  a  deft  touch  in  the  drawing  of  charac 
ter.  They  are  delicately  and  sympathetically  done  and 
their  literary  charm  is  undeniable" — Brooklyn  Daily 
Eagle. 

SHORT  PLAYS 

The  Shadowed  Star. — The  Ring. — The  Rose. — Luck.— 
Entr'  Act. — A  Woman's  a  Woman  for  A'  That. — A 
Fan  and  Two  Candlesticks. — A  Modern  Masque. — 
The  Futurists. — The  Gate  of  Wishes. 

$2.50. 


MORE  SHORT  PLAYS 

His  Second  Girl. — At  the  Church  Door. — Honey. — The 
Dress  Rehearsal  of  Hamlet. — The  Pioneers. — In  Men- 
delesia,  Part  I;  In  Mendelesia,  Part  II. — The  Dryad. 

#2.50. 


THIRD  BOOK  OF  SHORT  PLAYS 

A  Weak-End. — In  Heaven. — Standing  Moving. — An 
Apocryphal  Episode. — The  Storm. — When  Two's  Not 
Company. — Peter  Donelly. 

#2.50. 


A  FAN  AND  Two  CANDLESTICKS 

Published  separately  as  No.    3  of  the   Stewart  Kidd 
Little  Theatre  Plays. 

50  cents. 

STEWART  KIDD  PUBLISHERS 


FOURTEEN  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


LD  21-100»i-2  '55 
(Bl39s22)476 


General  Library 

University  of  Californi 

Berkeley 


671750 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


